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Cole Locklear, MS1

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.