What you don’t know is buried,
our prehistory in stunning detail:
my lungs, for example,
full of arthropods.
The trilobites I’ve saved—
my mother’s mouth, my father’s back,
your eyes turning, a thousand spears.
What mammoth roars were swallowed
in tar pits and covered over
with so much sentiment.
We’re both scientists, but at night we
glow white and phosphorus.
about the author
Elizabeth Cantonwine Schmidt lives and writes in Kettering, Ohio. Her poetry has been published in Flights, and featured on WYSO’s poetry program, Conrad’s Corner. She is married with four children, and works as a Librarian at Wright Memorial Public Library.