the execution of the dinosaurs by kevin brophy

We might as well we thought— it was only an afternoon’s work—
We painted targets on them first then took out our slings—
No we hunted them down by beating buckets and tins
to drive them down to our bamboo traps
where we lined them up and took out our baseball bats.
You can’t say we don’t finish what we begin.

Yes we grieved. Our eyes, traitorous, kept expecting them.
The children didn’t like it at first but soon got used to rubber versions.
Dogs ate the carcasses—dogs and birds—
dogs and birds and ants—dogs and birds and ants and time.
We ate some and the marrow made us feel young.

Yes we knew regret, who doesn’t find that in the end.
Whole forests, plains and rivers became pointless
without their thoughtful bellows and yips,
their nightly sighs and mysterious rustles.
Forest breezes somehow smelled of them,
storms could not rid us of their footprints.

No swiping tails to knock down rats and gliders.
No more are we shocked at the sizzle
of seedy excrement on savannah dust.
They had been the cows of paradise for us.
There was no calling them back.
Our heads had not the musical horns they had perfected.

And besides our children preferred the toys by then.
Who could have predicted those monsters
(and most of them vegetarians)
would be immortal playthings once we executed them?

That sound in our chests ratcheting the future
from its dark past
unwinds with no end to endings and beginnings.
It is true the bones in our dreams are the size of didgeridoos
and deserts litter our conscience.