Trilobite is an arthropodologist's delight:
many bizarre creatures; no two alike.

three poems

Laurence Foshee

Henry Holiday’s “Dante And Beatrice” To Dorothy At Twenty

Florence, Italy. 1994

The facsimile first cast its firmer gaze, back to me.

Patricio Gimeno’s, in six decades like bared

Teeth, in Bizzell Library. Durante prematurely

gray for twenty. Triune women paced their scalene

unconcern, his thrice-blessed leading lady only

ever musing down the road. I stood in a sightline’s

way to be thrown to scenes of Fiorenza, Professor

Bizzari, and dubbed “Dantista Dilettantesca

for three dolled-up years in streets after parting from

my own grade-school puppy obsession—a cistern

my maybe-gay-but-catholic-raised heart tried hard

not to hold and bungled—in streets with Discman

drowning to a Naked Eyes tune on loop. Regina,

I love you but never said it to your stupid face.

Dorothy’s Arrival In Rio De Janeiro

Saudade Day. January 30th 2000

My stowaway, Lament At 26, (paltry wedlock

of inner rote-work demons) ain’t Bill battling overhead

luggage compartment’s Thermopylae, peeking back

at a stewardess bend and ask girls if they need

sacos de castanhas,” an exosolar

cordiality to our skyhook ears’ first seed

to root Portuguese. I wanted her

too, her cashew Hailstone Sequence

in peevish meninas’ laughter—

Boolean increments,

lust and feckless fun,

the attendant’s

sigh, our wan



we drove

(Rio in

rearview) to strive,

to hope through fissure,

shadowland marriage—love

birds nursed our iron eggs for

multilingual Regina’s “põe

ovos de ferro” as translator,

way past Eduardo Bizzari or cloy-

ing Rainfire James Taylor and Harriet

Onus’s best, scraped barrels of “Devil to Pay

In Backlands,” daquiris’ downfalls, and pages to heat

our Pauline bed’s moony, harsher sheets. I name them her heart.

Lament At 26

Oklahoma. May 20th 1999

This odd absence

turns eight today.

Will he dance mad

as a cootied


Or will he wax

somber, stricken

with bone cancer?

Will he fester?

Or play the game

a prodigal

grandmaster? Will

he waver—or

scream, immortal?