Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Man at the Museum of Modern Art

Whose name will be on his lips when he dies? 

Whose body (weight, skin, fervors of it) 

.

will he remember? Who was his first ugliness? 

What his first treason? 

.

He won’t stop walking, doesn’t look at anything, 

wanders from room to escalator,

.

hall to other space — for an hour now — 

carrying that plastic bag, a thick hardcover 

.

askew in it. Why do I follow him — what 

is it that makes me do that, often, in streets or

.

subways even, getting off before my stop 

to follow a man, woman, couple?  

.

Yesterday, on a park bench — they spoke 

a language I didn’t understand — I listened 

.

long to the plucked, hushed vowels of two 

women, their voices so drained I felt 

.

hatred for something I couldn’t name — 

& still can’t?  It wasn’t life or fate  or —

***

But this man today, with his knitted scarf 

& polished shoes in this insufferably

.

civilized place — it’s Larry I see, Larry 

Levis: the casual gestures, that staring-

.

beyond in his gaze, the head always tilted 

back or away too much. I would have stalked 

.

him too from subway to street, bench to bus,

wanting answers then turning away. 

.

What else can I do but turn away

as I did from my own first ugliness, 

.

hiding my face in my arm to stop seeing 

Hannah’s hurt — we were only six & 

.

I was already evil.  I won’t forget her, 

Hannah the hare-lip.   

.

How horror stalks us — as desire does, 

love or hunger.  What answers do I 

.

want from this man lost in a Museum?  

Whose name will be on my lips when I die?  

.

Whose stalker am I but my own?

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Copyright 2019 Laure-Anne Bosselaar