Museum of Fine Arts
by Phoebe Wray

The boat of millions of years
aground in Boston.
Lights blazing like the red desert,
or the black one,
humidity gauges discreet in a corner
on the floor
where shod feet polish the marble
and plain eyes
read the little tags
and acquisition numbers.

O Sekhmet
blossoming black in the sunny room,
ureaus lost
sun disk lost
your eyes as ancient
as the boat of millions of years
surrounded by faces
that cannot understand.

I whisper your name
and touch the wild and
moving stone paw
and weep for your loneliness
moving in the boat of millions of years.

A list of links to some more of Phoebe Wray's work - short stories and writings published elsewhere - can be found at www.phoebewray.net