The Small World Studies Pictures of Cadavers 1839

Almost not there so much light makes the corner of the world disappear into the mouth of the open window      glare, tooth bottle of chloroform bottle of mercury the dead don't mind what happens      trays photographic veils, strips of textured light tear rainbows apart. Through the curtains leaves turn into reflections of fishes      gauze coating of potassium bichromate and gelatin metal plates, nitric acid       a vibration in the phosphorous a cheek still here uncorrupted only on salt paper Once there was luminous meat; before pearly slime of silvering bacteria by the millions and the millions, before there were such numbers there were secrets: glowing fungi deeply wooded away from the pious who curse the camera who reform the microscope with a larkspur petal, a fine cotton thread after flesh reveals its treachery: smooth at proper distance full of pockets of sin up close: everyone's a picture of Adam: that originally singed, inscribed with a system of forking creases, the pretty pattern of agenda; so many in the close corrupting look,      the forks almost seem to move,           —optical illusion—      travel deep into the psyche,           —hallucination—      only the legs they are, of crippled vultures           —hysteria and distortion—           —bent, the spine, too just an hour in the world slipping away           —the heaven and hell of everything twisted, image           and negative                (—¡so swift the impossible reversal!—)           the parson likewise produces both,           collar of faith black in the death pose           like a neck wound                (so this is the ultimate position                until the power of it holds off putrefaction                no longer)           the coffin his permanent confessional           where he'll have time to try to explain— as light turns silver salts black and destroys the clout of assumption in those first startling negatives: Fair women are transformed into negresses                —preposterous potential— and negresses into aspiration —they gleam under the mark, the stain has limit, has no depth; my God— degradation's no more permanent than permanent ink      (¡it will happen: great words unwriting themselves!)      (¡great triumphs festering!)      (¡worms feeding on them as on corpses!) no more complicated than blasphemy performing an autopsy on faith— so sure of the future devils turn and see how bright they are      in negatives how benevolent they are, how truly extraordinarily godly to accept abuse, to hoard persecution to personify wretchedness without compensation: the selfish wages of doing it to become a savior The camera catches a lie: a negress' epiphany, her readiness for heaven ((and under that, hidden even in x-ray: satisfaction that delays her going there)) the stomach's so small an ocean that what is swallowed bobs, a buoy for each effort to dispose of evidence even that one is Christian sucking down      the consecrated salt wafer: it's true then, this after life on the table: the angels are just dead negresses whom light has cut through, the Jesus star just her in five gleaming slices       a vibration in the phosphorous as if prayer (that also wiggles into and out of tight spots) has thrown a lifeline to the serpent.      It is a shame to cover this face.