They cracked you open like an egg,
poured out the yolk with a clean strike,
left your shell whole.
They took your pieces like glass,
picked up the broken edges in their bloody hands
and glued you together.
Your shards fit,
good as new.
The contents from your hard exterior
spilled into the cold metal tray:
a liver,
two kidneys,
two lungs.
I held your hand,
felt for the creases in your fingers
and the ridges like glacial grooves that made your prints.
Your fingers were creased.
The ridges were etched in your skin.
But I could feel the cracks
where the yolk poured out.