We none of us know
If we might one day become
Something sealed up
In a case of glass
To titillate tourists
Or children anxious for their lunch.

So I find myself capable
Of feeling only pity
For these dried out bones
Still bound inside
Their leather skin
These torsos opened to our gaze.

Perhaps this is why
The curator has moved them
From public display
And placed each one
Snail-like and sacred
Inside a curled confessional

Where we can stare
Into their brown reflection
Count their toes and teeth
Or roughly gauge
The measure of our perjured hearts
Against the feather of their truth.