Last year I went on a trip to NYC, with my friend for her birthday, the first day there, fresh off the plane she requested we went to a corpse museum. This is a poem based on the experience!
On Display
Chelsea Russell.
In New York.
That time you touched the corpse
on display.
In that museum,
where we wandered the black halls.
Eyed the rigour mortis set in colourful resins,
the skulls sliced at cross-sections to show
how the brain dies
after a stroke.
The displays themselves,
the previous people.
Frozen in their deathly silence.
Their mutilated bodies,
and useless genitalia hanging,
on display.
In that museum,
you asked me to keep an eye out for you.
I relished the irony.
The way you ignored
the multiple lifeless eyes,
with their fixed stares,
already watching over you.
As you reached your small hand out
and touched the formaldehyde hide.
I saw no problem with this,
the only thing
really on display
that day,
was our friendship.
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