Delineated into nothing more
than Supraspinous Fossa and fetid fibula
the death moss spreads,
Vermilion, smelling of ammonia.
gray strings of legs
plummet off the squalid edge
of the table and flail, like two
fillets undercooked while the
students stand, smiling at their good fortune.
Pickling is the least right of
the unimportant. A meager
embalming awaits waitress
and cook. Their fifteen minutes
of fame to be executed under
steady laser and scapula, wielded
with precision, a hole here,
the shaved knob of bone
in mass of chlorate floating
dense and alone; it stands stubborn and will
not yield though steady plea‘s cry ‘live’.
It appears today that Lazarus is to be
disappointed.
Amidst these skeletons,
all is incandescent, resplendent
anointed.
***
April is a native of Viroqua Wisconsin, a recent U.W. Whitewater Graduate, and a poetry fanatic who has been writing for the past seven years.
