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To the Brain Researchers
Say what you will, neuro-blasters,
Nerve-clenching masters of the scan,
Must you carry those forceps?
The little saws ready to cross the scalps?
I don’t want my brain to be
Your last frontier.
Synapses firing in hemispheres
and globes that ignite our movements,
Whether we bark in slow motion
Or bask in the scrape of buzz saws
Along our necks. You have to start
Housed in a tiny cabinet: sweetest
Little thing, the brain nestles
In a pillowy lining, red and fed
By terrible sanguine corpuscles.
Oh my lobes, my terrain of left and right—
Leave them unexplored.
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