Museum of the Body
from the eaves. Then the curator comes
with her stick pins, her white cards,
her typeset: head-, heart-, ear-,
belly-. The collectors start
small. They take your pinkie toe,
which you miss only in mornings
with the start of each starting step, you miss
only the feel of carpet under it.
They come for your skin slow
and in pieces. Soon you’re accustomed
to the look of muscle, the ruby
and the glint of it. Soon you admire
each white hint of bone. In the museum
the walls fill: a vertebra. Scapula. The pale
plain of ilium, ischium, the pubis
no longer embarrassing without its rough
shock of curls. There is a guide to lead
you from knee cap to talus bone. There
are words, finally. They explain: see here
the scar from a second grade bike wreck.
See here the thumb. See the nail asleep
in its bed. You are given headphones.
They tell you: here is the cranium,
mandible, the ear and all the words
it drummed: love and fear. Echo. Here the long
strands of hair you never asked to own.