“My body I give to my dear friend Doctor Southwood Smith to be disposed of in a manner hereinafter mentioned . . .”
—from the will of Jeremy Bentham, 30th of May, 1832
Sam, I am in a box
watching the centuries pass.
There’s a round object on the floor
between my feet—after some years
I realize that this had been my head.
When my dear friend the doctor
dissects my cadaver, I feel
nothing but crystalline joy—
lungs and bladder touched by light,
layers of skin peeled to reveal
the body’s secrets.
A wax head
plugged with glass eyes
tops the apparatus of my body,
a sculpted mausoleum
meant to resemble flesh
in the attitude in which
I sat in life.
I know my head is out there—
like a phantom limb I feel when it is touched,
once a year, a sensation like brisk wind.
Where are you, Sam?
My eyes are cold.