Undrunk Museum

Green glass glitters

in the museum of the undrunk.

I stumble through the doors at noon,

unfamiliar with the concept,

gibbering in an outer language

shaped as a sieve.

My inner contents spill from my throat,

the dam where the winter ice has broken.

Like an explosion,

I unfurl

exhibit to exhibit.

The glasses are remnants

of another woman’s more

acceptable thirst,

chalices and bowls her penchant

for racking up posterity.

In my pocket I have

a wet match,

a blank schedule,

a barrenness described

by my late parrot

as an “unbearable brightness

of breeding.”

Too fertile to breed,

exiled from my ambitious hips,

my spaces sing like a heavy anthem.

Museums like this, their vessels

gauche and green

are not for women like me,

a person of filling,

then emaciating,

then filling the goblet again.

With a sigh,

the glass on the edge

slides forward,


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