Poetry – Issue 9 | May 2010
Two poems by Jacqueline West
Friday, 3 p.m., British Museum
They are gone now.
We’ve stripped their graves.
The coffins gape like cracked nutshells.
Our breath fogs the glass; ancient works disappear
under a cloud of our own crowding.
We lap their undone burial.
Middle-aged matrons in sunglasses and twill
lean sweaty hands on rock rims of sarcophagi,
fanning creased necks with free brochures
and saying it’s hot in eight languages.
Coins jumbled in cases, sweating cups of cold tea,
the Rosetta glancing blandly from its cage.
The way our shoulders make a tomb.
The upturned catacombs gleam with fluorescence,
tilted troves lined up, bones polished.
The neatly restored feet that stand once again.
There is not enough air. We suck it like ice,
spit it out carved in hard alphabets.
Our words chip at the broken marble.
The blur of our tongues melts the stone.
About the author
Jacqueline West lives amid the bluffs of eastern Minnesota. Her favorite trips involve opportunities to explore crumbly old cemeteries and drink lots of unusual coffee. Her work has appeared in places such as flashquake, Inkwell Journal, The Pedestal Magazine, and St. Ann’s Review. You can find Jacqueline here.
Next in Poetry: Cologne
Previously in Poetry: The Belle of Osaka
