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“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.