Under a replica of a mammoth sloth, you place my hand
on your stomach and I feel the baby
kick. I look at a diorama of the Plains Indians, imagine
a tornado sweeping across their cardboard empire,
shaking the figurines loose from their toothpick fence.
We don’t speak; the museum
of tomorrow is small, and we are scared of the surgical knife
that will slice through your abdomen.
To exit, we walk backwards through the Devonian era
where the world is mostly water
and you get tired quickly. Here, the fish are still just
forming. The first forests, taking shape.