The bone saw slices through the skull
and out it pops, Einstein’s Brain!
Lifted from its case, a small loaf,
food for thought, looking like a piece of coral
separated from its stem and washed ashore,
a weighty hunk of Jello at a Unitarian potluck
wiggling on a stainless steel tray;
you could hold it in your hands.
Photographs are taken from every angle;
frontal, parietal, occipital,
temporal, limbic, insular.
Cubed up like chunks of tofu
ready to be stir-fried,
sealed up in two mason jars,
spirited away in a cider box
in the trunk of a pathologist’s Buick Century.
Lost several times, including almost once
in an ugly divorce, gawked at
by William S. Burroughs, who lived
next door to the brain.
He said he was offered a piece of it
but he declined, having no good place to keep it,
and returned to eating his lunch in the nude.
And what of Albert’s dreamy-dark eyes?
Those were taken too and are presumed
to be floating still, in a safe deposit box
somewhere in New York.