At the gateway to the underworld
earth has been ice since the Pleistocene
A foal floats out
a horse with hard, carved hooves
and reindeer, too.
In the lab, sickles of urine
melt on the table
Smooth the tail
tap the teeth
tickle the pips that
nipple the tongue
filiform, fungiform, foliate
We know what they ate.
What riches! Seven dinosaurs
tucked in their eggs
accordion feet splayed
cracked skulls in the tar pits
fragments of duck bone
traces of land snails
midges, mosquitoes, a horned lark
silver-tinged tundra mosses, the pelvis
of King Tut, sails of gold
meant for the sky
If tides of ice
bury me alive someday
and I am lost to time
but found in time
who will brush dew from my hair
will they know I was lonely
and how many times my body tried to say
there is starlight in my bones
—
Gillian Neimark is a science journalist who also writes poetry and fiction. Her poetry has appeared in Cimarron Review (nominated for a Pushcart Prize), The Massachusetts Review, Scientific American‘s Meter Column, The Blue Nib, Construction Literary Journal, Borderlands, Indelible and other publications. She launched her children’s imprint, Blue Jasper Editions, in 2023 with Forest Joy and Nature Explorers.
