Museum of Tested Faith

It’s a private collection. My love and I pay more than we can afford

to walk through this apartment-turned-exhibit. Our guide leads

                  us into the first room, which is full of the sort of dark

                  that makes you feel gone, that pulls your color out through

your heels. According to our guide, this room contains eleven

of the twelve apostles’ shadows—Naturally, we can’t turn on

                  the lights or they’d fade to an ugly gray. She has a reason for keeping

                  us removed from each work—the moon’s milk in a silver urn

to prevent spoiling during thunderstorms, and the recording

of Marie Antoinette’s last apology remains unplayed

                  for fear of losing her ghost. I can feel my love growing

                  ruffled, angry. We want more than containers. We want

our money back. She ignores our demands and offers

to show us two pieces not yet open to the public. She

                  touches a scab on the nape of my neck and turns to my love:

                  Behold this wound. Underneath it grows a forest of copper beeches. He tries

to rub his face against the leaves, but? They hurt, these trees

of mine. And what do I get? I get to search, to press my ear

                  to his ribs and listen for the crisp fracture of creeping ice. My love asks,

                  Can you really hear it? And I can, but I don’t care

to prove it—I’d rather see my trees. When the museum

closes, we’re still inside. We don’t notice when the door locks,

or where the guide goes. My love and I spend the night

tweezing meaning from our skin. We name each splinter carefully.