Tell me about the part when we chalked Xs on our limbs—
dissected the delicate hinges of our anatomy
in the name of Science.
My lines were straight,
unwavering archaeological sites
certain of the reward.
Yours fragmented, mostly
of expedition afraid to go all the way.
But the blade sliced through your bones
as if rescuing the marrow from the clutches of calcium.
The nerves proved more difficult.
Their fibers sewn together:
a militia of strong-armed filaments.
I stopped short of cutting out your heart
You called me “chicken”
asking, Where is the celebrated sonata?
The bloody concerto?
You called me “Balk.”
I didn’t correct you.
(originally published here)