Boxed Bones Georgina Provencio Martinez At the end of the hallway, boxed bones. They have been hidden at the museum for a week. To everyone but me, their existence is unknown. Missing posters at the door; someone taken from their homes. A blonde girl around my age they seek. At the end of the hallway, boxed bones. Some women taking pictures of an exhibit of Davy Jones. The museum’s prehistoric exhibition contains an air of mystique. To everyone but me, their existence is unknown. I walk towards my office to examine fossils and stones. Blonde girl? Don’t ask me. I don’t know, I won’t speak. At the end of the hallway, boxed bones. Bones? About them only I know. At the end of the hallway from their resting place they peek. To everyone but me, their existence is unknown. Human bones, white as snow. Oh, poor girl. My sweet Monique. At the end of the hallway, my boxed bones. To everyone but me, their existence is unknown.
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