| |
|
|
Little Doctors
by Avraham Cooper
Standing beside the metal body-tray,
Gloved and gowned and ready with tools,
We scratch scalpel lines in the abdomen
Of what once was a woman
Who died at middle age.
One of us holds a saw.
The saw grinds against hipbone
And stops.
"She looks like my mother"
He says
And covers the face with a flannel sheet.
|
|
|
|
|
