A silly variation of Donald Justice's variation.

I will die in the city on the street, downtown Charlotte,
on a day nobody’s there to say “watch out for that bus,

Tracy!” and pull me back to the curb. I’ll be writing

something in my head – a letter, perhaps – in cursive font,

letters that curve and loop like microscopic silly string;

and when I hit the pavement, the words will simmer

on the asphalt in all the blood and bits of brain.

I think it will be on an afternoon, when the sun is full and
draining sweat from construction workers and men in suits

wear shades. Most of the city will walk on, lunch plans
on their minds, but a man in the burrito place will see
and say, “oh shit, someone call 911!”
the way people do in movie medical emergencies

when an ambulance is already on the way.

Tracy Lynn Martin is dead. A city Humpty dumpty,
the hospital couldn’t put her together again.
Her skin, now painted and stuffed, is riding in a box in the
back of a car - slowing traffic - making people late for work.
On the asphalt in the city, across from the burrito place is
tiny bits of brain and a half-written letter. Occasionally

some get stuck to someone's tires and roll away. 

valentine's day

When I walked into the lab on Tuesday (Valentine's day), there was red everywhere, all over the white napkins my boss was working on. She wasn't trying to be festive, though; she was decapitating baby rats, little pink alien-looking creatures, with a pair of orange kitchen scissors. She dug the brains out of their heads, wrapped each one in foil, and put them all in the freezer. She called herself Dr. Death, and I could tell she hated doing it, especially when the rats' headless bodies wiggled all over the place spilling even more blood.

It was a gory scene, but more than disgusting it was beautiful. Scientists are often portrayed as cold and dispassionate in our culture - mad and evil at times, too - but the reality is the opposite. The scientists I've had the pleasure of working with lately are so passionate and caring in everything they do. As my boss cut each of their necks, she told me how much she hated doing it - how much she hated it for the rats - and her gloomy expression evidenced her sincerity. She knew she had to do it, though, so we could "get the real killers," as my old biology teacher says.

I'm 100% for the ethical treatment of animals in the lab, and I know none of those baby rats suffered as they were killed instantly. The good thing is the more advances made in the field of science, the less animals we need. This year, for example, chimps were declared unnecessary for for Hepatitis C research. I'm so thankful for the animals who do die and have died for the sake of research, who help us get the viruses and bacteria and diseases that eat away at the people we love and often times, take them away from us.

Later on that morning a procedure went wrong and we had to euthanize a full-grown rat. We put her in a clear box and turned the Co2 on and watched her run around until she finally just fell asleep, little pink paws up in the air. Today when my mom told me the Hepatitis C was currently undetectable in her blood, that image came back to me along with an overwhelming gratitude for scientists - and animals - who devote so much of themselves to helping others be healthy.

Really, the splatters of blood and frozen brains had nothing to do with Valentine's day. That is, until you think of all the people who might be better off because of that huge mess, until you consider all their loved ones waiting patiently and hopefully on science or God or both. Science isn't glorious to look at until you see the whole picture. Blood shed by animals in the lab is salvation for so many people, even if most don't realize it.

Tracy (the emptiness of names)

Right after the smack on the bottom comes the name. I remember
crying as they stuck mine on me: T-R-A-C-Y,
the letters spilling from mama’s lips like a can of alphabet
soup into sterile air. Tracy.

If you swish the letters around in your mouth, just
say the name as it sounds,
Tracy is one who seems sloppily jotted down: a girl traced
into existence through the projects of lazy students, but

a book of names will tell you Tracy means harvest,
the short form of Theresa,
a verb for the Greeks. Can you hear it? “We
must go Tracy the fields today, in search of beans,”
or something along those lines. And this raises

the question: what use are baby name
books in a world where star-crossed skeptics declared
the emptiness of names? “A rose is still a rose,”
they said. “Even if you call it a daisy.”

I learned the good in names, though, at age thirteen -
lost out in the woods at dinnertime
and Tracy was the sound of mama’s voice running through the trees,
grabbing my hand and leading me home
before dinner got cold.