Poem for a 9th grade biology lab in which I dissected a fetal pig & the classmates who told me I would be too squeamish to do it leaving the room to throw up

I am sinking into the inky earth of the New York State Highway.
Appalachia rots in the rearview, clouds’ rough edges rip at the sky.
I think of the first time I dissected something living, then dead, inedible,
suspended in formaldehyde, frozen for the sole purpose of my education.
How I was dissected on that operating table, all the times I’ve lived there,
unmoving under anesthesia, choking on the desire to wake back up. The
sterile hospital fluorescence nightlights empty halls, the comfort of the
scalpel. Does a surgeon remember each body She cuts? or is He just the axe?
We are driving through a pincushion of beetlekill. The Rockies swallow
the plateau like it is nothing—the great expanse gone in an instant—
Denver appears, light first, her arms open wide, welcoming me home.
But she isn’t my home, she shares your heartbeat, matches the rhythm
of your breathing. And all I am thinking of is Boston, the only place
I’ve found that beats in time with me. My pulse craves her lazy hills
over the mountainous goliaths that bore you. Your lungs thrive in
thin air; mine have been stapled together to survive. The sedation takes:
I’m drifting from those that shaped me, starting with the classrooms,
ending with the friends I swore would be at my wedding, realizing
I have spent all this time proving I won’t shy away from blood.