Calling Home the Scientists from Issue 7
The museum is gone from my bones now.
Labels and shelves gone,
scientists, equators, diagrammers gone
leaving the sky and mountains to cover me
and the earth, nameless these days,
The animals that quieted under their hands
squawking and calling in the open
spread my fingers to find their food.
All the names I could have had
stalk me through the desert
faster than antelopes, louder than bees.
How could I know pushing them away
in those white labcoats,
with those lined notebooks?
They were the angels of the new year
and the only names left, perhaps
all that is left, skeleton of humanity.
So here I am with my world now, soaring alone
stripped naked to the bone
free like lightning-struck trees
wanting it all back,
calling home the scientists,
calling home the museums.