This
headache is a life-sized dinosaur play park
fronted
by dueling stegosaurus and T-Rex.
Small
children race across the headache
to
pet spikes, to pose beneath scaly haze.
Voices
jumble—a father in jorts
shouts
for everyone to squeeze closer
to
the headache for posterity,
while
a woman wipes a wild face
clean
of mustard and screams
for
another to climb down off
a
smaller, sorer kid. Greasy hands
spill
yellow popcorn from a miniature train
trudging
its brontosaurus engine
across
the headache, and velcroed shoes
leap
from safety grating to ground,
a
brief freedom from the tyranny of lineups.
In
the lot, a poodle barks in a car under a tree,
the
sun shadowing fingers of headache
across
the asphalt. Family groups break away
now
and then to explore the rest
of
the headache: the triceratops nest,
the
raptor enclosure, the pterodactyls—
how
their wings spread, silhouettes
rammed
into sky by the steel shafts
sunk
into the headache. In the men’s room,
someone
has left a topic of discussion
for
the teenager who mops the headache,
and
at the snack bar, cotton candy
headaches
holey teeth. So where am I?
Follow
the sign for the pachycephalosaurus,
yonder
in a meadow encircled by magnolias.
I
crouch there, teeth bared, forehead tilted,
forever
glaring at something beyond
my
frame of reference. The weight of this skull.
This
headache. The blue sky and its white puffs.
They
change shade, the first hint of sunset, of sleep.
Kyle McKillop is a poet and teacher with an MFA in creative writing from UBC. His work has appeared in CV2, English Practice, Quarandreams, Sustenance, and his chapbook What I Will Do For Attention, among others. He lives on the unceded shared traditional territory of the Katzie and Kwantlen First Nations.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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