declaration 

if i were to choose a sacred text it would
at least be shiny. it would at least have
a little angel blood. a scroll or a tablet. 
not the hollow-eyed words i saw. 
we went to the capital when i was a kid.
the buildings were taller than they should be.
i remember the shadows like memories of giants. 
in the lobby of the hotel a piano played itself. 
blue water fountains. the smell of shoes in august. 
the museum felt like it was holding its breath.
clean. white. guards with ear pieces. 
i wanted to see the declaration of independence 
mostly because of the movie, national treasure. 
i hoped it might have a golden map. 
instead, the document stared back at me
from behind its glass. i asked in a whisper,
"is that it?" a piece of skin & a tissue box. 
dull & worn. not like an elder fish's gills but 
like old stockings. like polyester thrift store bras. 
i stepped back. the words turned into crows
free of the confines of an empire. i imagined 
stealing the paper like they did in the adventure movie.
not to inspect it but to unravel it. shake it down
for some seed i could not see. that i could not
ever live. we moved on.
went to the war machine museum. passed 
the big statues of small men. i hoped the words
once held on that paper found somewhere else
to be wild & ungoverned. the crows called.
i called back.