In time for Christmas, we cease cutting the dead
sawing bone, peeling flesh like fruit
unjoining tissues all shades of the same
pale, unmentioned absence.
Now we will sleep—perhaps—
though weary our brains are overfull
with labyrinths of nerves, hierarchies of fasciae, kingdoms of organs.
Our hands’ grand and grave work has pierced our dreams.
For dearest knowledge we have exchanged grit and spirit.