The Poet Laid Bare

Dr Wu and his assistants gather
round the mortuary table.

'Choose your instruments carefully'
says the doctor. 'This one looks tougher

than old stewing steak.' He handles
the body in latex gloves:

the head, turning blue, is
lifted to gauge weight;

the arms and legs are prodded - 'bruising
above the Patella'. The stomach is

bloated 'like the Chinese dough-balls
my mother used to make'.

They all agree: too much saturated fat -
the curse of this poet's literary career.

Wu sharpens his scalpel, draws it
the full length of the poet's skull.

Pain is averted by death's icy kiss
but dormant words are roused

and spill out like a summer
cloud of fruit flies.

Some fall onto the mortuary floor.
Others hide themselves in bottles

of thermaldrahyde. The metaphors
and similies, long intestinal strands

of jumbled up images, make a dash for
the exit and the promise of a new beginning.

'This stanza is in good shape' says Wu,
'well executed, truthful - put it in a jar

for the display cabinet.' An
assistant traps a cliche in the bowel,

examines it, shakes her head.
'The waste bin' says Wu 'along with

this hoary alliteration.' The poet's
words fill the dissection room, burst

like liquid baubles, enfold themselves
into the ether. In death comes liberation.

With liberation comes mystery and truth,
the words we should have said,

the stories we should have told.
Wu cleans out the poet's wind pipe,

drains the remainder of the blood.
'We'll stitch him up later' he says.

'Let's go get some lunch.' The mortuary
door is shut. The poet lies bare - filleted like

the fish-monger's mackerel he
immortalised in verse. In life

his stanzas were black. Now they fly,
crimson, red, and gold.