Fans whir to draw the fumes from twenty million
bottled corpses. Cupboards fill the seven floors;
behind each numbered door, shelves
and shelves of prawns or snakes or brittlestars
wait in tidy death. In the Tank Room
are the big jars – an oarfish stored
in concertinaed segments, a smiling dolphin head
haloed in amber fat, echidnas stacked like gobstoppers.
A pitching leadgreen sea drum-thumps
the hull. Spume-drenched sails belly, crack;
wind howls the shrouds. A redcoat staggers
on the lurch and clutches at a barrel;
wombed in brandy is the naked Nelson,
head bumping the staves.
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