Museum in My Heart
By Samaris Ayala
A museum, thats what my apartment from childhood
It is not unlike my dreams portray.
Among the crimson red sofa and wooden bed sets,
was the comfort of presence.
A presence of history.
My childhood no longer has evidence.
Places of my life seem to have a coherence of study.
Books and needlepoint remain embedded in the small
Temptation to destroy and begin have suffered over
Always hoping for a new beginning
For this reason there is no burial for my brother
His home is an altar
I create altars where Ive lived
Yet it seems to have a birth of livelihood
On my own I manage in most risky places
People places and things, yet I concentrate on my
I always had a space for a desk and a few books
In the museum the books were salvaged for years
Then they are lost
Yet they are in my imagination
We study to forgive
Those around me have forgiven
Therefore, I too forgive
The museum is in my heart
NYC-based writer Samaris Ayala contributes her poetry to Puerto Rico Sun. Ayala says
"Museum in My Heart" is "about leaving my home of forty
Ayala may be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.