trilobite

Trilobite
Lisa Morin

A trilobite is an elegant bug, a scarab charm,
a compact fossil, common enough to own.
Mine weighs lightly in my palm,
a poker chip the size of my fingernail, a doll trophy,
its lustrous slate gray dorsal side
grooved like the woven seat
of a miniature cane chair, its ventral side
a dull and chalky afterimage, the flip side
of the glossy death mask. I love its little anvil head,
its spinal column, ribbed and tapering. Alive,
it had too many moving parts,
but turned to stone, it is clean and static,
perfect as this year's penny.
It has no idea that the sun is shining on its back today,
that it has its own clear plastic box to live in
on my desk; it does not feel me
stroke its back with my thumb. It is unaware
that someone nudged it from its stone bed
and restored its fine furrows to the light
with terrifying patience. I probably won't notice it either
when it happens to me,
my pleasure in tea and orchids,
my awkwardness with strangers,
my weakness for beautiful paper,
my tendency to daydream,
my shame at my own ignorance,
my aches and insecurities,
my appetite for peanuts,
my appreciation of irony,
my fear of politicians,
my sense of humor,
my American sorrow, all gone,
long gone the way of my trilobite,
petal-sized patron saint
of present relics
and future fossils.

trilobite


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