Tag Archives: searching

museum of me

you caught me in our closet

again, plucking strands of hair

in the almost dark.


I said I was weaving curtains

to keep your mother out,

so you turned on the overhead

bulb and went back to bed.


at breakfast you said weren’t hungry

while I hovered around your knees,

sopping up the milk that bled like

canvas paint through the bowl I’d

made from the bits of me I’d been saving.


I baptized your spoon and examined

what I’d been leaving behind; five

of my molars formed the handle.

I tossed it in with the other cutlery

and when you left for work you kissed

me goodbye and my jaw fell off.


I think you were absentminded when

you put it in your briefcase with your

ballpoint pens and paperwork, and I

was left at home to cover all the mirrors.


I think I hid beneath the bed until

heard our screen door open and slap shut.


when I emerged all limbs you’d popped

open your case on our bedroom floor,

making a museum of me.


and while I reached for every piece

with newspaper hands you sunk

into a nearby chair, clicked on the

lamp and read me every hidden archive.

** I would like to thank WordPress for choosing my poem, a poet to her son, to be Freshly Pressed last week, and to all those who liked, commented, or chose to follow my blog based on that piece: your feedback has been overwhelming. Thank you so, so much. I look forward to making even more writing connections!


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