Poem to My Son as T-Rex
We build an asteroid from Legos, imagining ourselves
safe. In a bedtime Bible story, I was told that the dinosaurs
were not allowed onto the ark, sealed out with the heathens,
the waters rising around their necks. Never mind. Let’s just
play. Hold your hands in claws up to your skinny ribs, like this.
Feel what it means to be a species going extinct, two stupid
stubs of arms—but we don’t say stupid, you scold me—ok,
then ludicrous. Useless. Unable to reach the light
switch, to even make the decision: to douse us
in darkness, or hasten the flame of the asteroid’s tail
that I snap together with you, brick by brick. Look:
the ground beneath our feet is hardening to space rock. Roar
with me, son, our jaws already fossils, lined with dull teeth.
Brandon Thurman is a behavior analyst and poet living in Fayetteville, Arkansas with his husband and son. His poetry can be found or is forthcoming in PANK, Zone 3, Glass, and Noble/Gas Qtrly. He tweets @bthurman87.