Dissection
Of all the possible hours
Biology could fall it fell
Just before lunch
The formaldehyde smell
Hung on our hands
In a cloud roughly approximate
To the size and shape
Of winter mittens
While we filled our trays
With food we had
No appetite for
In that lab somewhere above us
Our frogs lay splayed
In a way we knew
To be somewhat lewd
Their bellies slit open
Their entrails exposed
But their white throats
Were uncut
And their exquisite faces
Fashioned over millennia
Remained composed and solemn
But most of all
Their square chins
Like the chins of fathers
Who one day
For no apparent reason
Shave the beards
They’ve worn for years
And frighten their sons