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In
the Museo Nationale de Antropologia, Mexico City
I
like museums
where you can touch things,
but they are precious
few. Mostly, guards
glare if you stand too close
and everywhere signs
admonish Silence.
It is necessary, of course.
Art is art. History, history.
And who are we to think of putting
a thumb on the nipple
of a Gaugin nude?
But
here, the velvet rope
of distance is pulled away.
The basin wherein the still beating
hearts of thousands were given
to the god who was serpent and bird
is as smooth as the mortar
in which I ground the basil
for the pasta al pesto
we ate until our tongues
turned green.
I place my hand there,
not knowing what was coming,
not knowing we all
will have our hearts torn
one way or another.
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