When I was eight years old, someone took me
to see the dinosaurs
at the museum. We were going down
a spiral staircase, glass cylinder
at the center with a T-Rex
suspended
inside. I leaned out, tried
to see its toes below, the cables. But this is how
I really remember it: part of me
is standing on the other side
of the spiral. I can see the skull
and that clamp of a jaw, the teeth
stripped to nothing but bone, no marrow, and I can see myself
leaning forward, looking down. If not for my palms
pressed white against the glass, it would appear
as if I were leaning against
the muzzle, figuring out
how to fall.
McKenzie Lynn Tozan lives and writes in South Bend, Indiana, where she teaches composition at Indiana University South Bend. She recently received her M.F.A. in poetry from Western Michigan University, where she worked as the layout and design editor for New Issues Poetry and Prose. Her poems have recently appeared in Encore Magazine, Sleet Magazine, Rogue Agent, and Analecta; and her book reviews have appeared on The Rumpus. For more, visit www.mckenzielynntozan.com.