nor magical. I am the one who waits in a white
          waiting room and wishes the one being cut

open in his chemical sleep will awaken. A pig
          died for this. Mitral valve harvested, unfixed.

My brother become part pig, part sin. Altered
          and alive. A beast beating inside him. He wears

his severance, scarred navel to neck—tattoo
          of pink violences.

Does the animal live on, does its death? Breath
          born of slaughter and stitchery.

My brother’s heart machine beeps green—box
          of brute lightning.

He opens his eyes, asks for whiskey, strawberry
          ice cream, and a pile of baby back ribs.

May pianos line his second life, stringed
          symphony of sutures and ivory.