#got abt a stanza and a half into that before very different inspiration struck lmao

[duck-in-a-spaceship]

The Inherent Violence of English Class

Went to another open mic last night, and read this fun little piece of prose poetry. It was dramatic enough that the old ladies in the front kept gasping at all the gore-y bits, which is about as glowing as a review as I could ever want.

This is a poem about poetry, English class, flies and, most importantly, dissecting great American poet Walt Whitman.

Word Count: 629

Content Warning: Dissection, mild gore, implied death

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Textbooks open to page 35.

Walt Whitman lies before me, splayed on a wooden table

Like a frog prepared for dissection

Limbs pulled back, skin pinned down

Eyes empty and glassy

They eat the sunlight streaming through the windows, instead of reflecting it back

"Do not look"

A voice instructs me

My head jerks up

To meet the face in front of me

It is thin and leathery, too little skin stretched over too much skeleton, worn strong like windswept cliffs

"Not like that, not there."

My teacher continues, tapping rubbery skin with the tip of my scalpel

She says simply

"Cut"

We cut

Blades split the wall of the small intestine, parting the tube down the center

"Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring"

There are flies still caught in the folds of the tissue, half-digested. If I squint, I can make out the words in their wings.

‘Oh lonely walks and words traced over in desks and pens taken apart and reassembled, over and over again’

"Take those out."

I notice that Miss has eyes like Walt Whitman- like the frog laid out in front of me. Drained of life and void of emotion.

I wonder if there would be flies in her stomach,

If I pulled back the skin and pinned it to the table

She walks away smoothly

Heels click on floors splattered with black

Ink spilled like blood

I replace my scalpel with a pair of tweezers

The smell of formaldehyde burns my nose, scrapes at my pores

It is in my lungs

And I fear that if I do not cough it up, it will kill me

I scoop the flies out, and push them to the side.

Their wings rip and tear, dissecting words to syllables to mere letters.

Snippets of alphabet instead of pieces of language

I peer into the space that they left

"Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill'd with the foolish"

That is all.

The hammer strikes against its bell

Hands push papers into folders, zip pencil cases shut, pull tight the straps of backpacks

Shoes rush against the floors splattered with black

Each taking with them a drop of ink

They all fade into nothingness

A hand finds the lights, and flips off the switch

I fade into nothingness

The room is empty, yet I cannot stop breathing formaldehyde

I cannot unspill the splattered ink

I step closer to Walt Whitman

"O me! O life!"

He is glassy eyes that do not see

He is pale skin that does not feel

He is empty veins that cannot bleed

He is an idea of a man

Words without meaning

I hold the poet's face, thumbs resting on his cheekbones

"The question, O me! so sad- recurring- What good amid these, O me, O life?"

My fingers dig into the bottom folds of his eyelids

They press, and press, and press

They pop

I hold the eyes of Walt Whitman in my hands

They clink together like marbles,

Like the toys of children on a cool autumn evening

They hold that autumn air, cold and glassy

I cup my hands and lift them to my mouth, so that my breaths fog their surface, and I may polish them shiny and slick

So I may warm that cold center

So I may see my reflection through colored irises and blackened pupils

‘Oh poems scribbled in notebooks and ink-stained hands and tear-soaked optic nerves’

I tuck the marbles away, and push open the door

Walt Whitman sits in my pocket

"That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse"

Oh ink splattered on the floor

Oh broken words abandoned on the wings of flies

Oh English textbooks, closed and tucked into bags