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)
dinosaur
Dinosaur
I dug myself a crater
upon which to climb
out of your wedding
you said extinction
means agreeing
to not be seen
& I am not about
removing myself
from the premises
of Earth
but here are the pearly
gates & golden steps
one can walk & walk
up into clouds
of thunderbolts
skipping time
like stones upon
the black surface
of water let’s say
to next year
when I have forgotten
the empty pool
& blueberries
have fallen out
of my mouth
& bounced off
a stone wall
I could climb
to jump from
(originally published in LEVITATE, Spring 2019)