—After The Mummy Child Exhibit: Museum of Fine Arts, Houston

Listen: it makes me shudder,
your obsession with me—
my stained gauze-skin,
my hollowed-out row boat

of a body—what are you
after? Yes, my blue-hearted lungs
were pulled from my chest,
reinserted for endurance.

You stare like you want to
caress the compressed stump
of my childhood. You want
too much. Go listen for the ache

of a bird song too far away
to follow, caught in winds
rearranging the river. Imagine
the last few seconds never

happening. Imagine the unrest
of forever with no music.
If that’s why you’re here,
find the child who visits me

every week and every week
asks her mother, is there really
a little girl underneath
all that wrapping?

Yes, the mother says.
Don’t you want to know
what the girl says to me
then? Every week? Find her.