There is a snigger in the gallery,
a certainty that they could and most certainly would
than this splaying of raw materials
scattered across the floor,
complete with name tag and provenance.
Fortunately, you think, they can not see you,
welling tears in your eyes,
seeing before you your history,
that moment of deconstruction
when everything was either permanence
you almost decided to die inside your body,
only your flesh still alive
and the rest of you scattered like mad art on the floor,
until, less in bravery than some kind of desperate stubbornness,
you rose, zombie-like
and like a child with a puzzle,
About this poem
A bit of personal history.
The picture was taken at MoMA in New York City.