Elizabeth Baltaro

It was not as scary as we had imagined,
when we opened the metal crypt
that cradled our body, our cadaver.
The first thing I noticed were bright pink nails.
Without stories, clothing, hair, nor jewelry,
the meager remains of a lifetime
were painted on her fingers.

Nail polish, tattoos, or signs of treatments,
age and a brief cause of death -
these facts were surprisingly enough
to allow us this modern rite of passage.
So we claimed this body as our teacher,
probed its layers and examined its depths
an extraordinary and singular journey.

We were all fearful surgeon-infants,
stumbling in our movements,
not wanting to cut too deeply or tear.
Yet, our body waited day by day,
asymmetrically strewn in plastic case,
with head in a translucent bag,
as we got to know this person.

We learned more about this body
than any other we will ever know.
Deep images of this person continue
to churn in our minds.
These pictures make us wonder
about other bodies,
especially our own.

The various textures on a canvas,
heart muscles like tree branches
overlapping in a dense forest.
Fibrous white connective tissue,
spurning sponginess of lungs,
red fading into luminescent tendons,
sweeping in symphony to the bones.

We were filled with desire,
to examine new paths, to see everything,
visiting an untouched wilderness,
with curious formations, trails,
a more interesting variation
than any we had seen or imagined,
our own medical odyssey of learning and maturation.

Sometimes, I took a moment to recognize
we were a room full of humans
dissecting our own species
amidst automatic lights and dispensers,
loud conversations, laughter and electric saws,
shrouded in sharp scent -
indecipherable.

Yet, with my group and cadaver,
our work was lucid.
This master guide of differentiation,
the inside of the human body in death,
had brought me closer to our life force -
the force that once animated this person, and drives us all,
with renewing potential.