Mary Anning

I saw them. In the mind’s eye.
A vision once obscured, then clarified.
Formless become contoured form. Not
calcium white as one may imagine, but
dirty, coffee cream. Flesh and blood’s
collective memory stored for century upon
century in fossilized bone: conical or
needle sharp teeth, large hollow ‘O’s
where eyes would have viewed the world, flippers
or wings, to wield element to need. The
Greeks named them ‘lizards’ and ‘winged
finger.’ But did not behold their glory first-
hand. As I have. Entombed

in chocolate velvet, womb-like darkness. A life,
a history, to be dug, clawed, scraped out
into light.

Rose Foran is published in several small anthologies and won first prize in a DAC competition as well as highly commended. She also loves reading other poets and fiction.