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SHE SITS LIKE A MAN
BUT SHE SMILES LIKE A REPTILE

She remembers
the plastic dinosaurs;
the little bag full
that mother brought home
from the store.
A cellophane sack
of petroleum based toys
that represented
four million years
of evolution
(in more ways than one).

On Sundays,
if the wind is blowing,
she'll listen closely
and translate angels
into Latin
then English
then back into wind.
And she blows the angels
into the air
form the head
of a dandy-lion.

In silent rooms
she forgets to breathe
for fear of breaking silence
or any given number
of concentrations.
She can't remember Tuesday,
but she knows
it must have been
beautiful.

She makes a perfect
line of dinosaurs,
nose to tail, heads down
like a funeral procession
for four million years
of evolution.
Each one is given
a name and an age:
"Steven: paleolithic"
"Sarah: Mesozoic"
then they march
back into the bag.

She doesn't move
when dancing
but she knows
there's a rhythm
to the way
the planets
orbit the sun.

She smiles at
the thought of dragons
or dinosaurs
ever being larger
than the ones
she puts in the bag.

She never lived
their history,
but she knows
it must have been
beautiful.