Museum Fatigue
By Anna Potter
Upon viewing “Three Figures at the Base of Crucifixion” by Francis Bacon
Garish orange framed by sterile white walls,
black hole churning in redbrick universe,
and I, small spectator, sucked into its revolution.
Fifteen is the age of revelation, the year of
waking up to the sharp edges of this flesh-suit,
that eternal itching, that toothless smile,
pedestrian still in matters of horror,
that worldly sting still fresh on my cheek.
*
Consciousness demands screaming, I think.
The lungs of a newborn can attest to this theory,
how we all emerge, gory and guileless, shrieking
into this world. But for the dying, for the dead,
for the diffident, a scream does not evidence life,
or prove posterity, or promise release.
That filthy rag which morphs immortality into
animality, and withholds sight from the starved.
*
To not partake is to forget a nightmare, to erase a
a genocidal epitaph, to not indulge, stuff my
eyes with gruesome shapes, choke on grisly facts,
to not genuflect, fall down in reverence, leave
muddy trails between the floorboards.
To not grieve is to not honor. Immemorial, I
stand guard for sorrow’s sake. I bow, I wail,
I defend this holy rite to be broken.
