When I was eight years old, someone took me
to see the dinosaurs

at the museum. We were going down
a spiral staircase, glass cylinder

at the center with a T-Rex

inside. I leaned out, tried
to see its toes below, the cables. But this is how

I really remember it: part of me
is standing on the other side

of the spiral. I can see the skull
and that clamp of a jaw, the teeth

stripped to nothing but bone, no marrow, and I can see myself
leaning forward, looking down. If not for my palms

pressed white against the glass, it would appear
as if I were leaning against

the muzzle, figuring out
how to fall.


—recently published on Whale Road Review