The tattoo my cadaver has on his right upper arm

of an army-green cross standing at attention

topped by a combat helmet

with a rifle leaned against it.

He was a vet like my grandfathers.

I’d like to hear his stories and know where he served.

Another cadaver’s arm hangs languidly off the table

at its very end are fingernails frosted pink

in this place sticking out like

a guest who walked into the wrong party.

Who thought to paint her nails during

her final few days of life, and why?

Was it just a chore, or part of saying goodbye?

Reaching deep into a body and pulling out man’s handiwork:

pacemakers, wires, and metal mesh.

After all those surgeries, was life any better,

or were you ready to die?

Meanwhile, outside the windows,

sunsets with hearts of deep purple, laced with a crimson red

stretch from north to south

kissing the east as they head west.