Barium Mood

The jewel-inlaid sarcophagus glitters under LED lights.

In the sterile darkness, enclosed in glass, a body withers

under monitored pressure like the desert sun.

The cheekbones high and emaciated under parched skin.

The row of teeth set ivory and black between. The

eyes are institute-shadow, a vacuum contaminated by dust, surgery's opposite.

Somewhere else, a frail albino blinks up at the stars, knees

breakable and legs narrow under pitch-dyed fabric. His eyes

are the translucency of lemonade or another dilute acid.

(The invert pyramid nearly cracks his bones

and makes casts of them in ossified gold.)

A specimen, dissected and seeped in preservatives.

The nerves interred in slack muscle, then excavated and

displayed on slides, thin as papyrus and so fragile.

A breathing body, lungs glassy and exploded beyond

ribs, mouth clustered with rose petals like cancer,

eyes fixed between lips, pupils hypodermic death-dark.

Arcs, jet, and particles settle through x-ray stillness.

Scalpels glow red like blooms in summer twilight.

A star-punctured sky pools, and, later, is

drained beneath museum cases.