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HOLDING A TRILOBITE FOSSIL On one end, you’re chipped. I can see how deep your shape is laid. Geometric, you are semi-circles stacked like cones. You are tunnel’s top, a long set of tubes, time travel in my hand. If I lick you, will your death grow in me? I wonder what will be left of me, footprint or spine. Covered in Earth layer, too, dug out. What will I be called? Will someone store this part of me on their desk, rub me when sad? Create a whole life from my fragments, grouting those extra spaces, brushing bits away? I want to make a ring setting for you, torch the silver until it turns orange, bend pliable metal around you. I’d solder that outline to another piece cut with a jeweler’s saw. I’d put you in your cradle gently, curling the edges up over you to tuck you in a forever bed. I want to wear you, so I can touch you anytime I want. I want people 108 to see you, the shape of you, ask What is that stone? A fossil, I’ll say. Look at those ghost grays. I carry millions of years, a body once
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Mar 22, 2021
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