by Iris Jamahl Dunkle

I can feel the sadness of the large head
that floats in the museum like a planet

the metronome of feet shuffling past
a little sun powdering the lifted dust                  and it’s haloed

Weeks,           years,           knees
Red-raw in the dug dirt

A scientist dug you free and spelt you out for your new skin

Now the dinosaur contains what we imagined it could
A life that’s visible we can reconstruct

And all these people shuffling past
Faith or what church do you believe in

What’s behind the glass behind the skin of this life as we pass

I am an alphabet of bones,
my own telling.

*Photo courtesy Still Burning.