Ode to Amanda by Zoe Manarel

you once asked me what kind of dinosaur you would be.
we were in my room, and it was late
impatiently watching henna dry
like waiting for our world to change
allowing summer to stain us.
the night was warm and young
and so were we
and you asked me what kind of dinosaur you would be.
would you be the one with wings
viewing the world below you
knowing more than they ever could
yet admiring all that they were
or would you be the one with short arms reaching
for something so close yet so far
like tea
and Thursdays
and answers.
you’d be the kind that quietly listens
though your day was hard too
the kind that doesn’t eat meat
except chicken
and bacon
the kind that walks just to walk
with no destination other than peace
the kind that is inquisitive
when everyone else has moved on
maybe you were the first one to admire the cycad buds
or the sunset.
god, maybe the kind that was a farmer.
Amanda, I don’t know what kind of dinosaur you would be
maybe you aren’t one at all
maybe you are the stars they slept under.