I’ve dusted the relics
for display, careful
to curate a collection
of the self. Follow
the docent past the great
hall: weapons, splattered
canvas, coins and ironic
urinals, world leaders
made of marble before
entering an exhibit
of my body and best
mistakes—scars and sex
with strangers, vertebra
resisting alignment,
spirit claiming indifferent
cities. The cabinet of regret
outsizes the case of joys
but not the shelves of grief
carefully catalogued—
assault, sexual; disability,
invisible; father, deceased;
violence, domestic; womb,
barren. An intern wipes clean
the glass for zero dollars
an hour though the gift
shop sells my teeth,
the brittle fingernails plucked
after death for less
than a bad cup of coffee.
Preservation isn’t easy, so forgive
the arbitrary arrangement
of my underwear and grudges,
resentments next to a broken
childhood doll, private
matters made public, persona
a requirement for audience.
I tried to present the story
of my survival but museums
only display what is already lost,
curate what has ceased to exist.