Here, this unreal world: where the excavated torso
of Venus invites our gaze, where Christ
is always being crucified, where a barefoot girl
stands in a photograph, blankly pubescent.
We walk through an echoing silence, knowing
that all things are possible while the dead still live,
while the sky remains one color, while the limbs
of a lacquered nude are poised in its dance.
For a moment, we are a portrait. Then the lights
must dim. The doors must be locked behind us.
Outside, it is winter. The possibility of sirens
waits in the darkness as you walk
past some nameless rubble, back to a place
familiar from hunger and the smell of dust.
In thirty years, an echoing museum
will acquire the print of a white-boned corpse
crushed by a beam, and quietly display it
as an artifact of the century’s foreign war.
~ Rebekah Curry
Rebekah Curry is in her final year of study at the University of Kansas, where she is majoring in Classics. Her work has also appeared in inkscrawl, Antiphon, Strange Horizons, and the two books that have resulted from 150 Kansas Poems.