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you took me to the natural history museum
the one next to the flower garden
you didn't hold my hand
or you might have
my hair locked in an abrasive ponytail pulling at my ears everytime
the ceilings were like giants
making me feel meek and important
in a forgetful way
the way you don't think about the leaves coming back
in early March
one day they're just there and you're opening the windows again
the way you're meant to
you walked the spotless corridors and I trailed behind
always fearing the immense T-Rex at the front of the room
that followed you with its' eyes
one blink and the head could swivel
the knees would buckle and the colossus
could devour you in a dignified gulp
ending at the bottom of a salacious belly
full of tender body parts and terrifying things
like men pretending to be gods
trapped at the bottom of a well
no invention of fire could extinguish that darkness
reaching into my pocket for binoculars
when I finally look up you're gone past the ancient artifacts
there's a grin and a woman attached to it
and I can see that you're nervous because your feet are dancing back and forth
from their heels to their toes
and the laughter echoes through all the rooms
poignant and full
each room has a theme and I swim from
one diorama to the next alone
I can feel myself melting
with history sticking to my clothes like gum
cotton candy falling into a puddle
gone before you can even taste it
Jonathan Moya Feb 25
In the cancer museum
I imagine where mine
would rest in peace and ease.

My eyes scan rows of organs:
Disney’s lungs on top of
Newman’s own **** pair;

Ingrid Bergman’s left breast
bump Bette Davis’ right—
indiscreet voyagers;

Audrey Hepburn’s colon
nesting Farrah Fawcett’s
like Tiffany Angels.

I saw my spot next to…
but the doctor called me
back to look at the scans.

He pointed out my growths
grouped in a triangle,
told me of their plan/cure-

called them clouds but they seemed
caterpillars vegging
out on my intestines.

I imagined them cocooning,
metamorphosing to
surgical butterflies

or staying just rounders,
yellow earrings just for
Audrey’s and Farrah’s lobes.

Then the doctor turned it
and the picture became
more terrible things:

rats, sharks, wasps all vying
for valuable shelf space
in the small gallery.

Tourists and soldiers from
the plane crash/war museum
wander in wondering

why there are no jet planes
reassembling in slow
motion horror, dog tags

melted into the seats,
flesh in the torn engines,
no screams of real terror,

just the crowd bumping and
marching into me in silence,
sometimes taking pictures

while **** yellow chemo
solution runs down my
leg in pupae slime lines.  

The last one opens me,
looking for spikes of grief
or fury.  Finding none,

not even a cold tomb,
just a rip, tear, dim sounds
as the crowd echoes down

and surges out the door
for all the Holocaust
store souvenirs next door.

I hear my heart rustle
in the computer bytes,
the breath of trees

and swallows in my files,
a dusty cross inside
releasing butterflies

to the sky as I step
back and watch all
****** into the blue.

“Do you think I got it
all in?” the doctor says,
snapping my last picture
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2016
the surprisingly sweetest clementine

amidst the marble and stone pillars
of the museum's fifth avenue grand hall,
a woman grows faint and woozy,
and the Egyptian artifacts five thousand years old,
re-proved as reusable, sustainable,
as leaning-against-posts
for the dizzy

the boyfriend well familiar
with dehydration side effects,
from pocket pulls a natural pill of
a sweet clementine,
restoring the well
to the good

she marvels at
how came I
to place a survival kit in my
coat pocket?

smiling, he confesses
his fondness for
for all her needs,
known and unknown

even carries an inventory,
with back ups to back ups,
assorted sundries,
he calls it,
proving his point too well,
reaching into the other
pocket and offering
yet another,
a second helping
for his,
oh my darling,
sweetest clementine

she, undecided,
laugh or cry,
both equally attractive amazement solutions,
says only:

I love you for reasons,
known and unknown,
take me home
for reasons
now known,
and others,
as of yet,
most happily,

a  true story.

P.S. he hates carrying anything
Erin Suurkoivu Nov 2019
Does memory deserve such a platter?
Cellophane instead of silver, but still
An impressive tower.

Such weight it bears—
Exhibit of blue curiosities
Resting on shoulders,

Original honeycombs.
The honeyeater feasts
On what has made a meal of me.

Grand rooms echo with silence.
Love turned to hate
So often without comment.

A history of broken hearts lies beneath
Street level. Away from sun’s glare
I buried them.

It is a tomb I walk in, tour guide
To myself. It is an ossuary hidden deep
Underground. It is the Catacombs of Paris.

Here moldering in the dark repose
A stack of secret skulls and bones—
Those gleeful arsonists.

In the end, even they succumbed
To the fires they set,
Burning down chapels without regret.

The city rumbles overhead, oblivious.
Everyone is absorbed with their own busyness.
No one pauses to wonder outside the still museum.

The cool façade belies the treasures hidden within.
They forget the history we share.
No visitor ascends the stair.

Inside, all is quiet.
The sole curator walks among the artifacts—
The rare objects, a Gordian knot,

The personas we once wore:
The naked emperor, the femme fatale,
The honeycunt.
This is one of my favourite poems. Featured along with other fine poems in my poetry collection, "Blood for Honey", available through Amazon or Lulu.
Nicole Aug 2019
you were my museum curator
and he was my kingdom builder
never run back to what broke you
but why does my heart
choose to love
that museum curator
who left me scarred?
fray narte Aug 2019
She was an art,
but she wasn't the type
you'd find in museums
or the type that would
make you feel profound things
in your chest.

She was an art
tucked in hidden pockets
of a faded yellow dress.
She was an art,

slowly sketching herself
out of existence.
zero Aug 2019
black glassy eyes staring back at mine.
double reflections. doppelganger.
a hawk with spread wings,
attacking a nest. Its claws arched
aimed at a chick.
Stuffed and basted like it's Christmas without the carols,
it is still.
unmoving in the glass.
the chick, too, is frozen in time. or fear.
or stitches or reflections.
crown of feathers stuffed in my pillow,
I think of the hawk at night.
that chick.
those talons and that eye.
that little eye
staring back at mine as if to say;
save me.
I cannot.
museum trips make me sad.
Sabila Siddiqui Jul 2019
I sat there like a museum of moments,
a mosaic of emotions
as she dissected my personas
and did an autopsy of my past.

Memories climbed my spine
from the forgotten attics in my heart
with every question, she asked.

But my tongue was a drought
and my voice box was a rust box,
as the child in me
was bullied into quietude.

My edgy, messy and raw memories
molded my perception,
rewrote my interpretation
and deepened my experience.

There was underlying vengeance
as the layers of fabricated scabs were scrapped
to disclose the deeply entrenched, tender emotional scars.

As the present, struck a cord
my limbs would turn into cement
as the echo would bring me back
to the endless street of time
and I would be dragged
through open wounds within me.

The pain would seep in the nooks
and crannies of my soul.
At every jibe and remark
one more part of my flesh
would be chiseled away.

The sky would join in my sorrow
as the clouds gathered like sheep
summoned by a shepherd
and then we would begin to weep
our unresolved issues
onto tissues.

I revisited the bathrooms
that became sanctuary in high school
with its gossip soaked walls
and tear-stained countertops.

I dream of the people
that have lost their way in my memory;
a fabrication of nostalgia.
But the tranquility of waves,
can’t even erase the memories of their wrongdoings.

My past engraved itself
into my muscle memory
ingrained its teachings
and matured my sensibility.

The dim shadows that would creep
And the blues that I would pour
are becoming budding flowers in my chest.

Weaving from the same web
I was entangled in
building from the same sorrows
I was drowning in.

I began connecting,
understanding its stem
stitching my memories.

I write for my younger self
who felt silenced and erased by the world.

I shape all the tainted pieces of memories
into art and paint shades of my past
as each is soaked in a memory.

I craft subconscious relief,
breathing memories
into 6 alphabets
that were strung into paragraphs,
beginnings and end.

I reached out to corners
to bring out
sunrises and sunsets
and reignite dying embers
as I de-spell the damage that silently reverterbrates through generation.

I find home in my skin
and love myself, whole;
Shadows, crevice and all.
Anya Jul 2019
We visited an art museum today
“The Guggenheim” with it’s white spiraling architecture
I felt slightly cultured as I flipped through a book detailing an artist whose last name I vaguely recall started with a Q
Conveniently forgetting the very reason for my presence in that room being to charge my phone
Feeling educated as I recognize the names Matisse, Lautrec from my brief intro to art history courtesy of our overly enthusiastic design teacher
Basking in my elegance, taking petit little bites, of a macaroon in a cafe outside the museum
...Before noisily slurping my blood red ice tea
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