I am not Deinonychus, early Cretaceous,
scales or feathers on my elbows, ankles,
a fan of color around my eyes, claws that can tear out the jugular
in any neck free of armour. Beating heart. Hunger.
Fountain of blood spilled on the mud.
And I am not Mammuthus Primigenius.
The smell of beastly body all earth and urine,
on a damp forest floor. A forest larger than any country or map.
Oh, to see what the sky was like back then. I am a woman
watching time from a hot air balloon rising.
I can see all the moments below me.
Each one getting smaller, crater from an asteroid,
the dust bowl rolling away, the towers’ fall,
the houses I once knew, I can see them too,
tiny dots, faces gone to a blur of color
I can’t distinguish. Voices rise as far as we may fly. 42 years. 500.
There, that lake is now a small jewel, fluid stone.
Water we dove into, we because it isn’t always I,
eyes shut, nose plugged. Feel your body float
out of summer. Open your eyes and there is the wide mouth
of the bass, coming at you.
