We are earnest at the zoo.

My dad and I look at all the signs.

They are creamy plastic with greying sketches

that have been scaled up from their original size.

They show you what the animal eggs look like,

and the rhythm of the year

for each animal—when they bury

the eggs in the sand, when the infants

feed on the shell and climb up through the sand,

when the tide comes in.

My dad and I have a game

called Would-You-Ratherator.

He is the Would-You-Ratherator

and asks me questions

about death.

You might be the turtle-mom, my dad says.

I don’t want eggs. And I am so different from the turtle-mom.

Back home we go swimming in the public pool,

I bring the rubber snake we bought.

My dad wraps me in a towel,

I tell him the zoo facts.