At the Philadelphia Museum
I walk past the guard, into the crowd.
Sullen now, weary of rules, I've given up
explaining. She follows, barking at my heels,
"Ma'am! You cannot reenter the exhibit!"
Her voice climbs: "Turn around!"
I keep walking, wondering
if she'll call in back-up. I see myself
in handcuffs. A space opens in the crowd
and all the people turn from Frida Kahlo
to look at me, the culprit, and I bask,
naked in my criminal moment.
I bask in their gawping,
and I have never in my whole life
felt so free.
Kathy Nelson lives in central New Jersey. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Exit 13, poetsonline.org, switched-onGutenberg.org, US 1 Worksheets, The Edison Literary Review, and The Paterson Literary Review.