Marianne Boruch Cadaver, Speak - The Georgia Review

Marianne Boruchan excerpt fromCadaver, SpeakThe body—before they opened me—the darkest darkmust live in there. Where color is wasted.Because I hear them look:bright green of gallbladder, shocked yellow fat, acreageflat out under skin. To think I brought thison myself.No blood in the lab. No longermy blood, paste flakingbrown to the touch, the heart packed with it.They do that too.Let it pass, my husband said, for years.But you know what? It’s more, it’s howthere is no sleep. It’s how wordscome apart in a dream.And then you’re awake.Pale nerve, bluest black veins. Muscle gone graybut still pink in places,fanned out or narrowed, tendon-strict,white elastic to knob of femur,humerus. How on earthto tell this. That they see things hardlyanyone . . . things buried, doing[ 247 ]

248 the georgia reviewfor a lifetime. Sunkenbonehouse—what body, my slow mineral ruin.Darkness at the start—it sticks,it bothers me: why any color at all?Room of echo and stink. The silence we contain, wecadavers now, waterthat dumb and overflowing.Blessed those—too young to be stricken. They’re kids,in their twenties. They stare, they keep probing. To idleamazement, to trespass like that.Is it brave? What’s brave? You knowthen you unknow. My God, how they walk into this placeto begin with—all the ways in the smart ones, thismust burnright through them:Pure Spirit, stupid me good, just to stand here.____1.Unique. But each the same.They strip for this drape out ofjeans and those T-shirts,ready, this fit-for-sacrifice.Blue scrubs given first: pantscleaver-cut quick, sewn wide,a shirt over the head by wayof its V, the belta length of cord pulled up and held.

marianne boruch 249They tie itlike my daughters tied shoes,looking down and so serious.First a loop, only to circleand pass that through slowas if to practicepracticehow time is made. I rememberminute circles minute, secondsslip offand tighten.White lab coat torn at the pocket.White lab coat, a button gone missing.White lab coat, white lab coat repeat repeat,a refrain, months, weeks ofwhite lab coat bleached over and over tohuman, faint stain at the cuff.2.Silver faucets to the wall. And light from no window.Four tables broad enough, slick shine enough for usto be turned, to come apart one muscle, one intricate webwork at a time.That whirl, a machine that tries and tries and cannot—no, the air isn’t sweet.A plastic tub with its label spinal cords.Two three four empty ones already marked brains.

250 the georgia reviewDrawers with their hammer chiselrope handsawVirchow skull breaker—Fluorescent little ice cubes up there, bright basement room.Boxes and boxes of purple rubber gloves,cool, insistent as shadow.3.And once upon our time: we were two women,two men. Heart or lungs did us inold—me the most, my ninety-nine years. Here in the labthey’re told that. So do Iwin something? Me, third in lineon these tables. Only before they cut, they imaginewe imagined themimagining us as we made this offeringfor all humankind, one of thosehero movies, our signing the paper,desk of black wood and chrome untilwho-was-that?—stranger or niece or grandson—the callfrom hospital. Or kitchen, so much closer,more urgent,terrible, my daughter’s half sandwichleft to a plate.Post-yes: we drifted there, springand all summersunk in glycerin, ethyl alcohol, whicheverevil chemical. I forget.It read like a recipe for Boil-O at Christmas,

marianne boruch 251but that’s sugary and thick, each steamy cup,cinnamon in it. Cloves. The new year.He must have been a farmer, somemed student said. Why? Because he’sa big guy?—the second of uslaid out here, huge.The quiet one, not reallyin the class, who puts a caption on everylittle thing, called him the cadaver pinup, thecadaver hunk, so sure she was funny.In fact they’re in awe of his hands—even she is—the massive chest, the whole works, hissmallest nerve, muscle,almost an Oldenburg, she said, perfect vastexaggeration, to be set in caps.Like you know what a farmer looks like.Someone else said that. . . .