Eric Tran
I figured it'd be months without laughter.
Understandably. On pelvic dissection day
my friend Amelia whispers, I'm sorry,

girlfriend before starting the saw.
Another friend unknowingly holds

his cadaver's hand during the biggest
incisions. Classmates I don't even like
point out veins and nerves to spare me

hours of inhaling fat and fascia. Then
one group finds a penis pump and we decide

yes, he meant it as a surprise and the boys
fist-bump his cold hands. Another group
shares their cadaver's perfect pink polish,

another has fresh, unwrinkled ink
across her chest. Like tiny treasures

for us. Of course, the body is a gift.
Of course, no one donates their body
without a sense of humor. On dissection days

we all leave hungry, specifically for chicken.
I book my calendar with hook-ups

as if to practice how blood flows
while it can. One boy I bring home
has a scar down his sternum, a souvenir

of a heart condition. He apologizes
years after the incision healed, like the scar

wasn't a lovely pink. I imagine the lights
baring down on him, how so many lucky
hands got to press against his skin.
from the book MOUTH, SUGAR AND SMOKE / Diode Editions
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I wrote this poem years after having left the cadaver lab—being too close to the experience made it impossible to look at it directly. And I’m thankful for this. If I had written as the lab transpired, I think I would have been too myopic in focusing on the awfulness of the experience. Time introduced humor and love and humanity back into that part of my life.

Eric Tran on "Cadaver Lab"
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"Short Conversations with Poets: Adrian Matejka"

"Music initiates the verse, which activates the body, which then creates more music in the form of poetry. I love revision, but I love improvisation even more. I try to let the circuit that poetry creates—between all of the things I am, have forgotten, and wish I could be—remain unbroken during the act of writing."

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Cover image of Eugene Ostashevsky's translation of Vasily Kamensky's book, Tango with Cows
What Sparks Poetry:
Eugene Ostashevsky on Vasily Kamensky's “Constantinople"


"The Cubist language of the poem imposes cuts on words, fractures them into planes by repetition and variation, and recombines parts of words to build other words. Although the poem lacks a single order of reading—nor do we have evidence that Kamensky ever performed it out loud—it pulsates with sound repetitions. Repetitions convert its word lists into the sonic counterparts of Cubist planes, with each word turning into a formal variation of the one above it."
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