THE MUSEUM

Early memories

sifted through and savored

extrapolated from a misty landscape and

caught

to be encased in gilded cages,

hung from branches

so I

can see them

taste them

hear, smell, and touch them.

A museum of my past

and I

the doorman with the only key.

Memories picked not just for joy

but some from

pain

loneliness

confusion.

Laughing ones, encased in ripples,

responding to nudges and grubby, childish fingers.

Others cast long shadows

full of mystery and

strange movements,

flickering with an insistent light.

My hanging, gilded cages,

arranged

like some ancient, Babylonian garden.

More real than my present

safer than

my future.

Empty spaces in which to place the

newly caught and

music of the sirens

to guide me there.