Music at first when out of the dim room a little light
gather like a hand lying in church, a hand on
heads offering something, dot of salt disappearing, and
places, as a filtered melody in a moment in a giant life also
Goers stop at the skull and search its mind:
brow cool for a palm, parietal and temporal,
especially those orbits of the eyes, absence where paired
Then they warmed each other. Now is like
words enter the museum windows where light curls.
and make them behave in a way. Then they feel like
They smell like a small damp head.
They look like history upon introduction.
Sometimes a child in the museum stops and stares.
The skull does nothing but stare.
One night as I was falling asleep during a documentary on serial killers, I caught something about a family whose young daughter had disappeared, and years later her skeleton was discovered, or maybe only the skull, as that’s what they buried along with some stuffed animals. Imagine giving a stuffed animal to a skull. It seemed right. So I wanted to give a skull some hints at remembrance. Since music was my own first memory, it seemed right to begin there. I am not sure why the museum. Perhaps because a skull’s memories would need to be transmitted through something not a mind or a brain, yet still complexly layered, vaulted, storied and even peopled.