When I duct taped you to the wall of the art museum,
We printed out the title of our art piece on this fine,
White card, the kind that wobbles when you wave it
Like a man rocking himself to an unheard song
In solitary confinement. A prison? An asylum?
Is there a difference? We expected the doors to open.
We expected the janitor to find you hanging there
From the wall with its off-white paint and cut you down.
We expected a security guard to escort you,
Your body mummified in loose threads of duct tape
And out the front door where we would photograph you:
New York Man escapes spider web. More at eleven.
But the janitor, he polished the floors, and he dusted
Your shoulders and neck (without touching your head,)
And the security guard, he leaned in close to read
The little white placard that read The Protestor
Without ever meeting your eyes. They left you there
Until the first tour guide walked through the white halls
With twenty-four fifth graders and three families of four.
“This is a contemporary art piece called the Protester
By an anonymous donor to the Museum of Fine Art.
It captures the essence of solitude in rebellion.”
A fifth grader’s hand shoots into the air, “Is he alive?”
The tour guide smiles at the child, “Of course not.”
When we came, at the end of the day, with box cutters,
The visitors, they screamed, and they grabbed our arms
Until the security guards escorted us out the front door.
We were banned from the Museum of Fine Art, and you,
You would hang from those white walls until you starved.
So, why didn’t you speak up?
WILDsound Writing Festival 