From A New Hunger, the most recent collection by Laure-Anne Bosselaar, published in 2007 by Ausable Press:
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
makes me do that, so often, in streets or
subways even, getting off before my stop
to follow a man, woman, couple?
Yesterday, on a park bench, I listened long
to the plucked, hushed vowels of two
women – who spoke a language I didn't
understand – their voices so drained I felt
hatred for something I couldn't name – and
still can't. It isn't life or fate or –
*
But this man today, with his knitted
scarf and old brown shoes in this insufferably
civilized place – it's Larry I see, Larry Levis:
his casual gestures, that staring-beyond
schism 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 gaze – we were only six
and I was already evil. I can't forget her,
Hannah the hare-lip.
How horror stalks us – as desire does,
or 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?