for Julie Bianca Dahl Surgeons in an airport bus are lions at a zoo. They laze, dimly happy to see you. Tails barely flickering in the stagnant savannah air, Khaki pants sticking to pleather seat cushions, They look up only when you mention meat. Their forearms are clean, but you can smell the blood, See the line of skin roughened from washing. I tell them that I paint the body parts they move. We speak of organs as objects of art, The pinking liver finding itself alive in a new home, The invigorated pancreas, spurting kidneys—oh, joy of piss! Above…