By James Davis May
Featured Image: “Jesus Diptych” by Christopher Shoust

Jumbled in a box buried under a sediment
of obsolescence—
         busted luggage, boxes of VHS tapes,
tubs stuffed with old baby clothes—they’ve suffered

a second extinction, their snarls and scowls
all petrified
         in a kind of afterlife: not damnation,
exactly, more of a removal, an excommunication

from the child who made them lunge and jump,
growl and roar, loving them
                            like a god obsessed
with entertainment. Then one day, a lid eclipsed the light

like an indifferent ash cloud and did not lift again
until just now,
                  when looking for something else,
I found their box instead and slid it from the stack.

Even coughing from the dust, I’m surprised
by how happy I am
         to see them, and place one,
the triceratops, in my palm, holding it up

to the bare lightbulb to study the gray pebbled skin,
the beak opened
        in what looks like shock.
She once believed those horns could fight off any danger,

but all they do is scratch me from inside my pocket
as I climb the stairs
         back into time, answering
that voice that at least for now still calls for me.

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James Davis May is the author of two poetry collections, most recently
Unusually Grand Ideas. He lives in Macon, Georgia, where he directs the
creative writing program at Mercer University.