The instructions said to open up my soul

To pull aside the clattering shades, the dusty drapes

Of my personal museum

To cast light on fractured mirrors of truth and wishes

*

No!

They didn’t

That’s not it at all

It’s not …

That’s not what it meant

*

But the instructions said …

And I draw up my knees to protect my heart from

The thundering minds of curious and dispassionate scrutineers

Bent on clamorous critique

*

Wuss!

Who’s looking?

It means nothing at all

Just do it

Nobody here cares

*

But there is caring, in this new family

Not for the tiny living remnants of loves and losses curated here

Rather for the catacombs in which they are sealed, held safely

Behind my drawn up blanket dark knees.

 

 

©suzanne conboy-hill 2010

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