potential museums

in my parent's bedroom
i label each artifact. here is
the only full-length mirror 
in the whole house. 
here is mom's makeup bag
that smells like roses. the dried
lipstick. the fractured blush pan.
everywhere is a museum
if you live like me, with history rot
in your mouth. i have gone there too.
labeled your tongue, "unknown artist."
no i don't believe in curators
or even really picture frames. 
let the penguins run wild. let them
talk to the pigeons &  conspire
to their heart's content.
my father was a builder of museums too.
he mad them in the basement. 
little replicas of us. he would say,
"here is my hungry daughter"
making the eyes blink at me. 
i am the patron saint of falling short.
of calling in the middle of the night
just to hang up. each telephone 
worthy of a plaque that reads,
"we missed our flight." let's not
forget about bathrooms.
the trashcan labeled "tell me more."
what about the gift shops though?
they are always about try
to take that which cannot
be taken. it is a museum after all
not a gender. once i had a boy
reach in my mouth & take one
of my teeth. or was that my father?
or do i have two teeth missing?
it is best not to worry too much
about the underground collection.
a museum is what you see. is what
you want to bury like a king.
the work of a museum is never done.
each room has the capacity 
for fracturing into a shrine.
i will not let this be a shrine.
this is for the greedy & the guiltless.
will you come with me just to look?