Untitled Document

Biology Lesson

I remember slitting the dead mink's throat
past the place where it had its long neck broken.
A lesson in precision
the first incision silencing the laughter, the vegetarian debate
of the late-comers at the back of the class.
The mink kept its grin, its carnivorous teeth
yellowed like the dentures of a forty-a-day smoker.

Cutting:
the fumes of formaldehyde crept into my clothes;
all through my school days, and then on to college,
walking the long corridors of the zoology department.

"Glottis" you shouted, pointing with your scalpel
"Glottis, epiglottis, artery, trachea!" This was your last year
you had the practical down pat.
You would soon retire into the quiet of your council flat
to cultivating your window boxes, to growing a cancer.

I sliced on, my tweezers pulling the slack skin tight
trying hard to follow the typed instructions,
blurred by a mistake copied too often.
My scissors cracked through the cartilage of the rib cage
accidentally cutting the muscle of the heart.

Later
when surrounded by flakes of flesh
you paid us the compliment of debating our dissection.
You justified the mess in terms of our instruction,
supplying, next summer, your body to medical science.

But most of us sixth formers were not really interested.
We watched as the fourth years straggled out to play netball.
Unsure of the value of our comprehensive education
we found our focus in more selected subjects.

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