He’s made her ordinary, spread her slim
seventeen years across this table,
measured her tight little head,
pieced together seven-hundred bits.
There’s a box for her femur and pelvis,
and one more for her ankles and vertebrae.
There’s a foot in her jaw, a bayonet
above her ribs, a drill press,
an anvil, a wrench. There’s a saw blade
abraded with diamonds like those
in the corset she wore under her dress,
diamonds sewn so close together