Admission

(n.) a statement acknowledging the truth of something
(n.) the price charged to enter a space

Peer through the window:
a family seated at the table.
Children, faces round and pale
as rinsed pearls. Photographs festoon
the kitchen, an oversized clock,
a plate painted, hung on a nail.
The house is yellow like rich cream
half-broken into butter. Growing up
behind glass has benefits. This cannot
be overlooked. Like God, the curator
is a man the children have learned
to fear. They move through the rooms
carefully as if they know the house
is a museum. Each night, they watch
him destroy the exhibit. Glass pops
out of picture frames, scatters across tile
like roaches hit by a shock of light.
The children wake to find everything
restored, a stack of blueberry pancakes,
the floor vacuumed. They don’t forget
to thank him. Lift the roof and you will
notice the mother pinned to a wall,
arms outstretched, ribs exposed.
This exhibit is designed to repeat
for thirty years. The children develop
peculiar habits. They sometimes look
forward to finding shards of porcelain
in their feet or pressing down on
old bruises, proof that something
happened here. Entry to the museum
is free, on occasion accidental.
You may leave at any time.

Mollie O'Leary is an MFA student in poetry at the University of Washington, Seattle. Prior to pursuing her MFA, she worked as a middle school English teacher. Her poems have previously appeared in COUNTERCLOCK. Mollie has, at varying points in time, called Massachusetts, Ohio, and Texas home.