Someday I think we’ll be in a museum
Not our art or our stories or
The boots you’ll wear when you give that speech I know you’ve been
Itching to say,
Just our bodies.
Our bones discolored by the dirt of a thousand years will sit inside a case
With specially-designed air pressure (to prevent decay)
And in death, as fossils, we’ll be important,
We’ll be the breath of science
The only signs of a past and fallen civilization

And I don’t know how I feel about it,
I don’t know if I want anybody studying the bone structures of my hips
But you.

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