brooklyn museum

that summer i brought everyone to the museum. 
the boy with pigeons for eyes 
& my uncle & my father & my brother.
once, just a stray dog who looked 
like he might want to wander with me.
we stood in a secret hallway 
where there were rows & rows of family portraits.
no, i lied. they were just images of waves.
crashing & calling. the windows
like submarines. i don't know what i hoped
they would see. i guess i thought maybe
we would all stay. i think i would make
a good exhibit. i could pose & everyone could
take out their sketchbooks. each drawing,
a different species of mushroom. i remember
what my friend told me.
"do not try to show them something
you love. show them something you are
unsure of." we sat at the place settings 
of the dinner party. forks the size of arms.
dresses fashioned into salad. i thought i would
grow out my hair. i thought i would
become a window of a sky eater. 
we sat one afternoon in the garden out back.
i was a cranefly & everyone else were horses.
i asked my father, "what did you like best?"
he said, "the train leaving the city."
streets knotting. sidewalk trees plucking
their hungry handfuls of tangerine. 
i thought if i returned enough times 
someone would see exactly what i saw.
the station of lucifer in the lobby. 
his ribs like oars. this was my home.