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Human Museum

Once there was a living room hung with saints;
now only lives etched onto my back, red and black.
Blue Lady G and the scent of red roses. Blood
of C, and metal hearts circled with sharp wire.
I am chained to the bottles of ash on the mantle.
At my ankles, brown paper sacks of holy sand.


I am dragging the memory of my brother, crosses
on the highway, shadow of his racing, erasing
his son at four and forever smiling wife in profile.
Tears tattooed here for the tiny butterfly, cut
short flutter of my daughter come stillborn,
and the initials of her mother so I'll never lose her.


Wishes like shame engraved, as I am left
standing for the annual replacement of plastic
wreaths and red valentines, fading caution
tape and glass. I am weeping with my back turned
so you cannot see me. Nothing but small creases
as I walk over nails on this dry desert. Pilgrimage


of body art for the missing down my shoulder
blades and spine. Head down with nothing
more to drink. Absence seeping


pungent stench of roses, dying.

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