Poem of the Week

Strange, as a child he was always drawn to the inert.

In museums he’d stand for ages at the diorama,

its animals ranged in natural groups, stock-still

against the painted backdrops, forests, Himalayas.

Enchanted, as in a fairy tale, the deer pricked up

its ears as he edged closer in the neon, eyes shining.

In the skull of the caveman right next door he saw

only the gaping hole, couldn’t imagine the blow

of his rival’s club, the struggle for the fire.

The Egyptian mummy had lasted thousands of years
with its brain spooled out. Only with the melting
of the perma-ice had this mammoth come to light.
The most beautiful butterflies, big as your hand,
he found skewered with pins. Once he thought
he saw their wings still quivering—as if in memory
of the trees that had been felled, the tropical winds.
A draught, perhaps, had blown through the displays.