“Good mother lizard.”
Good mother tries her best.
A good mother finding sanctuary for fragile shells
Small, earthen sanctuary to shield from
Hell-fire brimstone through the roof.
Below the surface.

A poultice leaving all sorrow behind
As hot ash burns the sky to cinder.
Only stone-bone evidence traces remain
As proof of love.
Of care.
Unearth the Chouteau
Strong enough to outlast extinction of all else
And fossilise.

But what of a mother?
Who cares for her when her time comes?
In that earthy stratum, there lie countless more.
And many more than that which nature did not bother to preserve.
Were they not good mothers?
Why do we push them aside or rip them from the earth
Place them in dusty buildings full of their kind,
Museums and the like?
What of a mother is good?