Hatchling

the dinosaur took me in his arms
on the car hood, like it was acceptable,
even though the law said there should be
a circle between us. the triceratops pointed
at the sky where a bird knocked
into another bird: we should kiss but your mouth
is the hunter’s mouth is the edge of a soft thing. he let me
rest my head on his leathery cheek.
my manager told me I’d never work in a park again,
I didn’t understand efficiency:
could I press play and incinerate bones?
did I not, as he preached, have a god inside me
that would hate illegal immigrants? they
showed us on a doll once,
nails pinned in the plushy, perishable limbs,
to prove there’s not enough space
for two beasts. hatchling, I hope you stay inside,
separation would be cruel. I try not to think
about my birth and his.


March 2020 Challenge Winner