Ms. Weiss sticks her fist
inside a dead cow’s heart
and wears, for one brilliant minute, 
 
a red boxing glove. Poor 
heart, dumb on the table, 
to teach us about form: 
 
superior vena cava,
veins, valves, ventricles,
small, empty chambers 
 
where blood once swarmed—
Ms. Weiss’ wedding ring 
slips off inside this once warm 
 
home—Oh!—is it David 
who howls first? The lesson 
shatters. I love that 
 
what is precious can vanish 
in any heart. I know 
nothing of gold or marriage, 
 
just that today, science lost 
to slime, expert to animal, 
term to body, living to dead, so I 
 
join my pack and laugh 
until my sides crack and my heart 
bursts at the sight of Ms. Weiss, 
 
both hands now deep and bloodied, 
leaning over the long gone organ
to save her thing of meaning.