c r o s s
c o n n e c t
i n t h e b a s e m e n t o f t h e m u s e u m o f p o t e n t i a l u r g e s
J O A N N A F U H R M A N
Those greenish lights reveal the restrooms
layered scum. The faucet by the window
is always on. No water needed.
You might want to linger with your
eighth grade crush, that vegetarian you inhaled
veal near in the prep school cafeteria.
Her teeth are still so vertical.
Who cares if there are more "exciting" exhibitions
on the floors above: a rumor of some porno
projected on a fifth grade teacher's smile,
a stick of butter churned to never melt?
Desire here is so hush-hush, docents bow
their heads in admiration. I bet you never
knew that girl whose hair you tried to stroke
was still recovering from chemo?
And yes, it's true,
the gift-shop's nearly out of souvenirs,
the buyer's too ashamed to read the catalogue…
but still, I want to meet you here.
Please bring the look you hid from
when you turned fifteen. I'll shine
my nipples like the drool-wet-stars.
© crossconnect 1995-2002
published in association with the
university of pennsylvania's
kelly writers house