my body a dinosaur

September 29, 2020
blue human skeletons on a brown and orange background
Art by Kim Salac

I dream that a dinosaur walks 

into a museum and doesn’t know 

it’s him in the middle of the display. 

As I tell him, his razortooth-lined jaw 

drops in dismay. It’s a mistake,

he roars, a jewel tear rolling

down his face. I take his stubby claw 

and explain there’s not much to work with, 

dreaming up dinos. All we have is bones. 

Troubled, he replies: But dinosaurs 

had fat. Meat that jiggled

when we ran. Body parts

spilling from scaly skin

or leisurely caving in. 

We were so much more than bones. 

 

When the world ends with you

preserved in dusty ash and mud,

the contours of your carcass

will melt off. Whoever finds you 

fossilized and fleeing 

and pieces you back together

will attribute the wrong wisdom

to your teeth. 

 

I dream that I walk into a museum

and see my bones hanging

from the ceiling. Cradled

in empty space, there’s only a trace

of me left. My shoulder blades

are splayed and wings are unmade.

My jaw cracked open in a roar. 

 

I am unimaginable.

 

 

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