The Nervous System Speaks
     At the Bodyworlds exhibit

They line up, backpacks to bellies,
and railwheel through; I knot right up.
I’m a silent-picture damsel, bound.
When I scream, tin pan piano music clots
on my lips. I can’t untie my spindly
limbs or crazy tics, my oversensitivity.

They roll their eyes—I’m much too small
to be the feeler of all things: donkey fur
to heartburn, eiderdown to rising welts.
They lean too close; my ganglia tremble.
Cameras flash; I see a train light closing in.
Oh missing flare-gun of my heart!
Lost bandage of my skin!

Tonight, a janitor will roll runner rugs
against the doors. He’ll sweep
ticket stubs and cracked M&M’s,
a costume bad-guy mustache grinning
in the dustpan. My empty hall will sigh
like iron after a crash. But I’ll still feel
the locomotive wheels against my back.
Such a long track. Such a deafening piano tune.  end