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.
