of a dinosaur? Or so I thought. An eyelash, I said, pointing,
to my omelette. Birds have eyelashes, those feathered dinosaurs—
consider the ostrich, batting its thick translucent lids
and smiling coyly. (Remember when you used to smile
at me like that?) You insisted it was only the edge
of a bubble of oil. Grease, I called it, and you were horrified.
So you said, yummy grease, as if adding the word yummy
would make it okay. Would make anything okay, now.
That eyelash reappeared in a stew, in a sandwich,
on my steak. It grew and grew. Not a coprolite, precisely,
not the imprint of a giant fern or the wing of a pterosaur, just that eyelash.
The tyrannosaur who lost it thrashes in my belly.
And in the bed between us,
Mary Stebbins Taitt
Note on the poem: Originally from a MNP assignment given by Patrick Lawler
070814, 070531, 060329a, 060328b Sent to Turtleink Tuesday, August 14, 2007