and not the pteranodon. Instead of “The Thinker” I first think
of the amnesiac, frozen as stone, traumatized by memories
of the monster hatching. Unless someone clarifies, I consider
the hints of the Lost World narrative, or the destructive beating
of Rodan’s wings, or how in the end, the beast burns in somber silence.
And then the conversation turns to sculpture’s curves, forcing me
from the false trail I’ve been following. Perhaps one day I will stop
writing poems about Godzilla-adjacent things, which will be very sad.
A friend once said they’ve always admired me for my unashamed love,
whether it be for dinosaurs or the deep sea or my dearest people.
My goal is to hold onto what brings me joy, and most of the time
I manage. No matter how ridiculous it seems, there’s as much beauty
to be found in that rubber suit-creature as there is in a Rodin, or me.

Gretchen Rockwell is a queer poet whose work has appeared in AGNI, Cotton Xenomorph, Palette Poetry, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere; xe has two chapbooks. Gretchen enjoys writing about gender, science, space, and unusual connections. Find xer on Twitter at @daft_rockwell or at www.gretchenrockwell.com.