The stabbing pain at the small of your back

thrums rather than throbs, wakes rather than sleeps,

feels much like the hooked blade of the museum eskimo’s

slung harpoon: He stalks your high-heel prints

through the obelisk lot at dawn, between mismatched displays

and underweight furniture trucks. After the throw

salesmen sprint to your aid with perfume and hammered gold rings,

all other accoutrements of a tinctured life. The eskimo,

teeth locked in a curatorial chatter, fills the floor

with his filling, the harpoonless hand clenched,

then unclenched, then clenched again. Your blood pools,

hardens, begins its long work back to the heart.