Self-portrait as a Dissected Frog

On Thursday / in the biology lab / the first thing
we all noticed / was the smell. Then, as our eyes
/ adjusted to the dim coolness of the room, we saw it /
as it lay at the end of the long centre island, belly-up
/ split open like palms / in prayer. And the boy,
a senior by the looks—grazed beard, dark moustache,
strong arms—stood above it, the knife / glinting
from the tubelight above. The teacher told us /
not to look, to let the senior / wound it further.
We were instructed / to pay attention to the lizards,
the snakes, the birds, the butterflies in piss-coloured
glasses. And though / all of us turned, because
who would want / to watch / the body being laid open
/ so mercilessly / in the open? But I did watch.
I was jealous / of the frog and of its proximity
to that boy. Remember, I was fourteen and discovering
/ love. As he bent / further to look, the knife / parting
the green flesh, I never wanted to be anything
/ but that frog. I desired / not the violence
but the deftness / of hands—the boy and his knife
against my body—to be worthy / to have him /
place his ears / and listen / to the secrets
the body has been guarding / so tirelessly ever since.