Lauren Terry

The Taxidermist’s Daughter

She grooms its plump white belly –
collar to tail, cooing. 

To peel the coat from a naked mammal,
part the pelt, make a slit along the spine.

Shuck the body from its husk; rub
curdled fat and offal from the other side. 

Your hands should be clean,
and quick to bathe the coat in fixer. 

The bald head should be detached,
dipped in hot wax to make a cast.

Once set, cleave the halves like a walnut shell,
and dispose of the meat, let plaster take its form. 

To make a body, use the bones; to firm the belly,
stuff with wood excelsior and bind in sewing twine. 

Your hands should be steady
to set glass eyes, and dress the dummy to taste.

She loops a yellow scarf
beneath its little chin, cooing.

Two Mothers

Beneath the skull cap is a white pith,
a thickness of parchment, dura mater,
meaning tough mother – 

when she splits there will be pulp,
and if you licked it, the taste of salt. 

Beneath the pith is a gossamer veil,
thickness of a latex glove, pia mater,
meaning tender mother – 

her translucent hold, stretching over
soft grey matter, over soft white matter.

It names itself into being:
cerebrum, cerebellum,
corpus callosum.

Lauren Terry is a poet and AHRC / Midlands3Cities doctoral researcher at Nottingham Trent University. Her critical-creative thesis explores the connections between (neuro)psychoanalysis, modernist poetic language, and material objects. Lauren’s poems have appeared in various online journals including Molly Bloom, Anthropocene, and Litter. Her debut pamphlet, Museum of Lost and Broken Things, is forthcoming (June 2020) with Leafe Press.