Sarah Ann Winn

THE MUSEUMOBILE

of Moveable History
is missing again.
Lost traveling out to towns
too remote to hear about
the endless lost things —
cities buried while

we did laundry, washed
away while we scrubbed
floors, safe planes unsafening,
sudden mountains opening
like pop-ups in children's books,
cave paintings found by children

in Pied Piper range, in stories
no longer legend, languages
fading or stolen away.
Last Titanic survivor,
and oldest known test patient
for polio vaccine

get a divorce.
How dangerous it all is.
We know so much history,
so little about the past.
Thirty miners still buried,
as deep as they ever were.

One hundred years ago,
the mathematic equivalent of
once upon, they understood —
the way through history
is soundproof. Must be
tube threaded carefully.

The same stints used to keep my
Grandmother's arteries open
prop these lines of story,
which flow, for now. Always
down deep in the dark the fear
something new will collapse.

Sarah Ann Winn lives in Fairfax Virginia. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Apeiron Review, [d]ecember, Flycatcher, Lost River Review, Lunch Ticket, Massachusetts Review and NonBinary Review, among others. Visit her at bluebirdwords.com or follow her @blueaisling on Twitter.