By Margaret Atwood

I circle, confront

my opponent. The thing

refuses to be shaped, it moves

like yeast. I thrust,

the thing fights back.

It dissolves, growls, grows crude claws;

The air is dusty with blood.

It springs, I cut

with delicate precision.

The specimens

ranged on the shelves, applaud.

The thing falls Thud. A cat

anatomized.

O secret

form of the heart, now I have you.