A Rebecca Hazelton Poem

In the Room Where We Are Human

I don’t want to live in the time of the lumbering dinosaurs.
Not even the quick, feathered ones whose discovery
revised out of existence the plodding walnut brained
behemoths I colored with crayons. Why did I memorize
the Latin names—why thunder lizard at all?
Once there was the animatronic neck of the sad mother
discovering her ravaged nest with a terrible slowness.
It took almost an hour for the loss to reach her.
Mammals are the ones that steal, again and again.
First they are rats and then they grow larger and then
they walk upright. This stays the same.
The measured mother is replaced with a swifter model,
and it is inaccurate, scientifically, for humans
to ride dinosaurs, saddled or otherwise,
even if one wears a bikini made of skins
or sports an impressive tan. With faith, however,
all things are possible, and so in the Creationist museum
humans and dinosaurs live together, but not well.
There are many battles until the Lord comes.
It seems like an exciting time. In this world,
we make due with the maps of paths not taken,
extra organs, a smidge of tail, but with our nerves—
those pathways of astonishing speed—we feel pain
not just in the moment it begins, but before, and ever after.

(2014)