Echoes of Prehistory

Naturally, there are theories

about why children are so mesmerized

by dinosaurs, about how a five-year-old

can memorize those Latin names,

the prefixes and their dietary habits,

even before learning his own phone number.

—

My child effortlessly recites

the names I now struggle with,

setting up figures just as I did

long ago. Here, the curved back

of a brontosaur; there, a triceratops,

fully armored. From the armchair,

a pterodactyl oversees

the primeval expanse of carpet.

—

Each dinosaur vanishes occasionally,

only to be unearthed from beneath

a cabinet or the sofa cushions,

then reburied in the deep toy chest,

its lid closing as tightly as the earth.

Next time they're brought out to play,

another fossil has been found.

—

A tooth or an eggshell fragment

reveals new insights about their lifespan

or intelligence, whether they were warm- or cold-blooded.

On the floor, they seem to debate

the latest discovery, each figuring out

which part of their kind has been unearthed.

—

Sometimes, they line up side by side,

waiting to topple like dominoes,

my son's tennis ball the bright asteroid,

his shadow a looming dark cloud

as he stands. His passion for them cools

imperceptibly, like the slow movement of glaciers,

marking the transition from one age to the next.