My Autopsy

Michael Dickman

There is a way
if we want
into everything

I'll eat the chicken carbonara and you eat the veal, the olives, the small and
glowing loaves of bread

I'll eat the waiter, the waitress
floating through the candled dark in shiny black slacks
like water at night

The napkins, folded into paper boats, contain invisible Japanese poems

You eat the forks
all the knives, asleep and waiting
on the white tables

What do you love?

I love the way our teeth stay long after we're gone, hanging on despite worms
or fire

I love our stomachs
turning over
the earth

(Excerpt)