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Poems by Marianne Boruch
Little Fugue
Snowfall in G Minor
Still Life
What God Knew
Poems about the Body
A Hand
by Jane Hirshfield
After tagging the dust your body is made of
by Jen Tynes
by Monica Ferrell
by Matthew Schwartz
Brokeheart: Just like that
by Patrick Rosal
Danse Russe
by William Carlos Williams
by Afaa M. Weaver
For the Man with the Erection Lasting More than Four Hours
by John Hodgen
Ghost in the Land of Skeletons
by Christopher Kennedy
Guessing My Death [excerpt]
by CAConrad
by Marilyn Hacker
homage to my hips
by Lucille Clifton
I Sing the Body Electric
by Walt Whitman
In the Surgical Theatre
by Dana Levin
Love Letter to a Stranger
by Jenny Browne
Multiple Man: Guest-starring me & you
by Gary Jackson
My Skeleton
by Jane Hirshfield
Post-Dissertation-Intervention (i.)
by Ronaldo Wilson
Self-Portrait in a Wire Jacket
by Monica Youn
Slight Tremor
by Linda Gregerson
Textbook & Absence (Anatomy)
by Catherine Barnett
The Tongue
by Chris Martin
These Hands, If Not Gods
by Natalie Diaz
With Child
by Genevieve Taggard
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Human Atlas

by Marianne Boruch

Because the body really 
is Mars, is Earth or Venus or the saddest downsized
Pluto, can be booked, bound, mapped then.
Or rendered like something off the bone, fat just under 
the animal skin, to lard, 
cheaper, quicker than butter, like stillness
belies restlessness, like every yes
was or will be not, never, no,
                                          none of that.
A full section in such a book
keeps the skeleton quiet. (So untroubled to be specific, to say 
femur, rib, half-minute of splendor, 
to stare like that
stops time...) Or slick pages and pages given over
to slow the blood, remake muscle, to un-secret 
that most mysterious lymph, its arsenal 
of glands under the arm, at groin, at neck, awful
ghost lightning in it.  Inscrutable.
                                                    Complete: because
the whole body ends, remember?  
But each ending
goes on and on. Complete: because some 
minor genius with a pencil, with ink, with drastic color
makes that arm you've  known for years
raw, inside out, near wanton run of red vessel and nerve, 
once a sin to look, weirdly now,
what should be hidden. Oh, it's garish 
                                                       equals austere.
Compute. Does not compute. Tell me.  
Then tell me who that 
me is, or the 
you understood, the any of us, our precious 
everything we ever, layer upon 
bright layer.

Copyright 2011 by Marianne Boruch. Used with permission of the author.
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