Today's poem is by Hannah Lee Nahar

Museum
       

They wouldn't let me into the world
because my hands were shaking. I knocked
and knocked, but there was a wall. The wall
read ENTER fruitlessly. All those bricks
escaped the wall, only to be gathered
in a pile under glass, ordered, arranged.
It doesn't move me. I move me, slipping perfect
on the ice outside, a moon-shaped gap in the knee
of my jeans, perfect for gravel to make a home
in the fall. I could run around and impress
each gilded frame with finger grease, climb every giant
symbol. When my bag breaks open, the spill
is a relief: one less thing, something destroyed.
I'm not moved yet. There's too much to avoid.

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Copyright © 2024 Hannah Lee Nahar All rights reserved
from Salt Hill
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission