The little wooden desk creaks
like floorboards on the Ark, the
wood straining beneath Triceratops
feet. I imagine Noah settling disputes
between polar bears and Tyrannosaurs
and naked mole rats.
At snack time I eat graham
crackers with honey and think
that this is what they ought to serve
during communion instead of
those little flying saucers. Mother
says in Mexico they eat similar
wafers with cajeta, gets upset
when I tell her that there were
never any Mexicans in the Bible.
I raise my hand during class, trying
to put two and two together, like
Legos or Lincoln Logs, or any
of the other things I’d rather be doing.
I paint Adam and Eve as cavemen, as
Ringo Starr and Shelley Long,
Atouk and Tala. Creating fire, covering
themselves in loin-cloths of sabertooth
instead of leaves and branches.
I end up have to say a bunch
of prayers that I can’t remember.
I don’t even ask about unicorns
or minotaurs. I watch rain splatter
against the window of the
principal’s office. I see Pegasus
split the sky like a sheet.
I imagine the coffee in the principal’s
cup jumping, rippling, warning.
Impact tremors… I learned that
from Jurassic Park.
I look up at the ceiling, ignoring
the scolding, waiting for something
to break through.