after Claudia Emerson’s on leaving my body to science

Pack the forests away in this dyed night,
I won’t need them anymore, hair of thin

cigarette smoke, trunk of posed opium.

                                           I is a liminal state.

This scalpel has become a familiar, 
listed in known accomplices. 

My blood blister becomes an artefact
to be observed by medical students. 

I becomes noncompliant,
an unnecessary baggage claim
of this mortician’s cadaver,

eyes sown as tight as buttons.



Grant Tarbard is a form of jellied molecules that loves ice cream. These molecules are the author of Loneliness is the Machine That Drives the Word (Platypus Press) & Rosary of Ghosts (Indigo Dreams). Upcoming books are Dog (Gatehouse Press) & This is the Carousel Mother Warned You About (Three Drops Press).