Clinical Precision

Mason jar on counter
next to the amber
flowered vase.

A wisp of formaldehyde
wafts sweetly
from her lab.

The label
simply reads:
“anonymous.”

Through the muck
one could see
suspended parts.

Hopes and dreams
lie tangled
at the bottom.

Trust and faith
dissected
with clinical precision.

The gray heart floating.
Damaged.
Limp.

A thousand cuts
from one X-Acto; the new,
improved “Inquisition” model.

Her glasses too fogged
with efficiency to see
that he was still alive.