We wrote for Miss Price. We made voices
that weren’t ours for three full pages:
the old, the immigrants, Negroes, Jews.

The banana is an herb, she said, but
The Koran claims it’s the forbidden fruit.
The orange is a berry. Grapefruit is new.

In the handed-down writings of Pliny.
In Herodotus; in Aristotle.
In da Vinci, who fears The Flood’s return

We stood, in health class, around the cow’s heart
Miss Hutchings unwrapped on her desk. Inside
And out, she said, we need to know ourselves,

The surgeon Celsus, at the time of Christ,
Said the right hand should operate
On the left eye, the left hand should invade

For public appearances, for the crowds
Who expected perfection, he managed,
Take after take, to mimic the sound

The leg pales as it lies limply, completely relaxed. It grows pulpy to the touch. It stiffens, becoming incredibly rigid. Blackens. A smell, a withering away.

I have taught tennis serves to wealthy women, repeating the importance of the Y. They practiced before me, attempting to toss the ball within reach of their swerving rackets, lifting their breasts inside carefully fitted uniforms, and I sang a song of encouragement, standing near the most attractive.