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72 the minnesota review Mary Pinard Black and White Autopsy Up to his forearms in viscera, my brother grins for a camera. Here's a corpse pared open. Grey skin from abdomen to throat is flapped back over the face. Hair, shot of rotting straw, straggles into the skull empty, bony bowl. What brain there was deftly scooped in a jar, that one behind, to the right of my brother's head then more shelves with organs canned, pressing against the glass. This photo is black and white. It is taped to the refrigerator. His face, pathologist's mask, is smooth except for a thick mustache—shadowy coarse, and what about the holes in his eyes? People who reach for milk or butter, an egg, can't believe their eyes, no grandchild, wedding or family pet. This is the son, next-in-line doctor, on which all hope for tradition rests, reaching for the heart to cut it out. ...


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