AT THE MUSEUM
by Lucy Hurst
30/05/2020 | poetry |
AT THE MUSEUM
my menstruating womb throbs when i look at his bones in an intoxicating heat blood churning out of my body, ready to jump-start the life back into his i breathe up against his glass like an incubator in NICU
there’s an intimacy in the pure brutality of his death; the hammer that did him in would’ve been this close & personal those restless bones jittering about just for me- whatever happened to sleeping when you’re dead? perhaps i could smash the box disassemble him stash him under my jumper & run off with his bones i think he’d be happier sleeping in the Ouse or decomposing in my back garden
i can see his features in full detail i imagine his muscularity & breadth the way he’d swing an axe through a man’s spine i want to lean in and caress his big bony head but i doubt he needs patronising further if this is what is required to be remembered then i’m ready to be lost in history
about Lucy (she/her/hers)
I am a 22 year old poet, residing in Lincolnshire. I’m
currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at YSJ, and
specialise in queer and disabled poetry.
twitter: @lu_cyhu