Lilly asks as we leave
the Highland Park pool

do you need
a dinosaur figurine?

I look at the lost
and found table

she points to, and
I make mental dots

for sprawling trinkets
that must have meant

something to someone,
once, trying to determine

what she means by dinosaur–
is it the green color shining

off plastic rings? The fake
bird feathers? She points

again and this time I follow
to a rubber Tyrannosaur, no

ambiguity, Yes, my cat died
this morning. Yes, right after

the break-up. Because I fit what
doesn’t make sense into butterflies,

love, and the stillness around me.
You ask, can you envision

our future together? I see it
in our palms: a tree with a million

branches, and on the other
hand, a tree with a billion

branches, and on another,
a tree full of open hands.

(originally published in Dandelion Scribes, Spring 2025)