the anatomy of a poem
The anatomy of a poem is such that it can be plucked and stripped right down to its tiny, fragile little bones. While you have a poem on the table, it is best to restrain its wings with small swatches of Scotch tape, just the tips, so that its plumage is spread out and each feather can be examined. It is wise to examine each and every feather with a jeweler's loupe, if possible, before moving on to its head, torso, and abdomen, for any words that might stick out and which can be harvested for later use. These stray words are particularly good flavoring in essays and non-fiction, much as a dried herb might bolster a lackluster consommé.
The poem may wriggle a bit as you move on from the wings, and it may be necessary to restrain it further. There are devices which have been manufactured for this express purpose, though I can caution you as a veteran poem-handler that most of them are both overpriced and unnecessary. Sometimes they can even snap the poem's neck, if mis-applied. No, the traditional approach is best: gently place your thumb and forefinger on the poem's forehead, applying only the tiniest bit of pressure, until you can feel the blood in its skull-veins throbbing beneath your fingertips.
At this point, the poem will be in a state of manufactured ecstasy, and you may explore the rest of it at your leisure. This process is called "breaking in." Remember as you leave the poem to slap it lightly on the stomach to rouse it from its dissociated state, but I will go over this egress in more detail later, in Chapter 9: Pulling the Door Shut Behind You.
The poem's eyes may roll up into its head.
The poem may utter small, eccentric noises, as if it is trying to say its name. (Bear in mind that its name is not necessarily also its title, though this is the case on many occasions.)
The poem may give off a certain smell, one which reminds you of something that you can't quite put your finger on. Chalk, perhaps, from days spent in schoolrooms as a child. Geraniums, from the pots your mother used to hang on the backporch, like an olfactory portcullis. Dirt, and earth, perhaps. It all depends on what type of poem it is.
The poem may also irrupt with effluvia of various kinds. This is rare, but if it does happen, please don your safety glasses and your safety gloves before continuing the procedure. If you wish, you may try to capture the materia that has been released by the poem, but beware that if you touch it with your bare skin, it will suction to your flesh and surgery may be required in order to remove it. These surgeries are very risky in nature, and have often only resulted in the further burrowing of the materia beneath the skin. One case is known of where the poem slipped so deep under a practitioner's skin that it grafted to her bone.
Please also be advised that reading the poem in any way may result in hysterical blindness, tears, heartbreak, or rage. I advise you not to read the poem with your uncovered eyes. If you want to be truly safe, I recommend taking the poem to your local Bowdlerizer, who can trim out the volatile phrases and dispose of them in summary fashion, where they will not infect anyone unduly.