The Museum of Missing Women

They built a wing for us—

glass cases full of empty gloves,

sound recordings of laughter

with no mouths to claim them,

a quilt stitched from letters

that all begin "Dearest, I fear—"

The curator gives tours in whispers:

"Notice the gaps in the ledger,

the way this wedding portrait’s edges

are singed where she stood.

Observe the fossilized imprints

of opinions never requested."

Visitors tilt their heads,

peering at artifacts labeled

Domesticity, circa 1953—

a vacuum cleaner displayed like a relic,

its bag full of unwritten novels.

A child’s shoe beside a textbook

annotated "Withdrawn,

per husband’s request."

In the Hall of Almost-Was,

a single spotlight illuminates

a podium with no speech upon it,

the microphone still warm.

The gift shop sells postcards:

"Wish you were here!"

in looping script,

though no one recalls

who you might be.

At closing time,

the night guard swears

he hears heels clicking

through the dark galleries—

a rhythm like typewriter keys,

like a heartbeat,

like the march that never happened

because they were too busy

packing lunches,

faking pleasure,

holding the world together

with silent hands.