Dissection

Limbs pinned. Head back. Belly white like sea foam, at least in memory. We gather round in private crucifixion. Opened with a scalpel, down the middle, skin sticking to the blade. A tiny organ is plucked out and held up for our inspection. Liver or kidney, no blood or water. Frog no more. Science now, like magnets, fire, hydrogen. 

This returns to me in the front row of the cinema on Norton Street. Greek film, fishermen at sea, lobsters and poker games at night. The man next to me laughing deeply, spilling popcorn, while I try to hide my tears. Sort of how a booming shot leaves a rabbit tumbling in the distance.

And one lunchtime in The Louvre, push-ups underneath Le Radeau de la Méduse. Backpack on, sleeves rolled up, neck veins pulsing, friends recording on iPhones. But I knew he was heartbroken.

Necklace

I write this

Sitting on the floor

Wondering if life is

Just a

Long necklace 

Of things you

Wish

You did when you were young  

Untitled I (La Gioconda)

— For Lucia Berlin

I visited The Louvre

At open time 

To hurry to La 

Gioconda for a photo

In the Grande Galerie

I slowed

To a stop and 

Thought about my grandmother

And the blue walls of her sitting room

And her life and its tragedies

The way that thick grubs

Would decimate her impatiens

Then become butterflies 

In the night

…

Tristan Foster is a writer from Sydney, Australia. His debut short story collection Letter to the Author of the Letter to the Father was published from Transmission Press.