Glistening rope

A knot of wet, twisted rope,
soaked in oil and left
to chill and lie
to drip into the table
solid and yet fragile
its glistening skin looks firm
you're desperate to touch it but afraid
of how slimy, cold and dead it will feel
of how you will feel
touching something
that was once in a head
it was the thinking part of you
that now drives your desire to feel how dead it is
how those meandering folds fit and shape
how it all sits together
how could that possibly control
a most marvelous and complex machine
that now looks at its companion stripped back
bare to its basest form, preserved
solid, flaccid, cold, gruesome,
a too shiny sponge
you yearn to cut into it
follow those paths
the bends in its folds
to try and see how it ticks
you step back, hands shaking, swallow
take a long, slow breath
and lift the knife