The Museum Of Almost

The Museum of Almost

In the archives of my mother's silence live all the girlfriends I never brought home, their laughter crystallised in amber, like pressed flowers between forbidden pages.

Behind glass marked:

"Do Not Touch," 

live all the kisses that happened in darkness, the hands that found mine in cinema seats, whilst novels burned for loving too honestly.

Some nights I'm the night guard here, 

checking that nothing has escaped into daylight where it might be questioned,

where gardens once hid desperate meetings.

The museum is emptying. 

My mother is asking careful questions and I'm finally giving her real answers, no longer writing in code or riddles.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

almost accepted but parents of my generation never came close to doing that.
So many lived in closets of fear for being who they really are.
Such a sad way to have to live.
This poem is quite honest...reminds me of Sexton or Levertov....confessional but needing to be said.
j.

[abbypullanlitandpoetry]

oh Jacob, I'm so sorry. This poem is somewhat an ode to Radclyffe Hall - you're absolutely right about parents of that generation (and some now) never coming close to that acceptance. So many lived in closets of fear for being who they really are.
Thank you for the incredible comparison to Sexton and Levertov - that means more than you know. You're right that it's confessional but needed to be said. The fact that you understand the historical weight behind it, the connection to writers like Hall who suffered for their honesty, shows how much literature can bridge these generational gaps.
Your compassion touched me deeply, Jacob.
Abby x