Held

We all end up in captivity.
In some family owned lot
shoved to the back of a cupboard
or in museums
if our bloodline is blue.
We pap ourselves incessantly
for this safety, in being witnessed
by the right people.
Sometimes I think of all the tourists
who hold me in two dimensions
on hard drives scattered
across the globe, unintentionally,
my sunglasses hiding my eyes
in the background, near city hall,
and I feel frightened
that I may never slip the leash
of myself. Other times I’m glad
that somewhere me and my loved ones sit
on a mantelpiece, like a shrine
to some minor god. I daydream
about the moments where we are lifted down
as the story is recounted of the cruise
to a foreign city, where the currency
was different, and the people welcoming
and strange.