The Last Dinosaur
When people ask me what it’s like, I tell them imagine being born in a hospice that’s on fire. As my relatives melted, I stood on one leg, raised my arms, eyes shut, & thought: tree tree tree as death passed me—untouched. I didn’t know God saw in us a failed attempt at heaven. Didn’t know my eyes had three shades of white but only one image of my mother. She’s standing under an ancient pine, sad that her time on Earth is all she owns. Oh human, I’m not mad at you for winning but that you never wished for more. Lord of language, why didn’t you master No without forgetting Yes? Sure—we can make out, if you want, but I’m warning you it’s a lot. Sometimes I think gravity was like To be brutally honest . . . & then never stopped talking. I guess what I mean is that I ate the apple not because the man lied when he said I was born of his rib but because I wanted to fill myself with its hunger for the ground, where the bones of my people still dream of me. I bet the light on this page isn’t invented yet. I bet you never guessed that my ass was once a small-town wonder. That the triceratops went nuts when I danced. How once, after weeks of drought, I walked through my father’s laughter just to feel the rain. Oh wind-broke wanderer, widow of hope & ha-has, oh sister, dropped seed—help me. I was made to die but I’m here to stay.