Dinosaur Bones: Forty-Six and Four
Terri Brown-Davidson

My daughter’s four. Age of anal-retentiveness,
some opine, though nobody’s cornered the market on quibble-ability
like me, a perimenopausal Poster Crone
gone mad and muttering and dark, the Hamlet of our Home
who can’t stop questioning
the nature of an existence gone primeval
on PremPhase and Prozac and my daughter’s perpetual questions,
both of us indulging our madness when the snapped pencils
Mei Li’s strewn across carpet become, in our manic imaginings,
triceratops shin-bones we examine
then fondle, whispering, “What magic”
as we both delve silently into our collective muttering pasts,
hers splashed cobalt as dawn, mine a rawer glittering Ice Age.

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