Swallowtail: Third Tattersby





You’ve never sat, doing your work

…if you had been me, on a stool upstairs

Made dumb by the green walls of Lippard’s laboratory

Looking down, as directed, through the lens

at the wing he’d razored along the vein

Some of the colors are not pigments, you know

Only reflections of light

He hated girls to be romantic

Wanted me in a purely clinical sense

To pin the specimen, wearing magnifying goggles

With the scalpel’s point, slice the abdomen



More of this piece on Tattersby page:

The Lay of the Land (excerpt)


Copyright 2017 Stephanie Foster


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