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

five poems

Claire Rychlewski

Dead in the Eyes

I found him in my bed,

domesticated and shaking.

Followed his Western nose

until he reached my door.

His gun kicks you back

when you shoot it.

He pours gasoline into the open mouths

of the mourning.

Like most predators, he sleeps peacefully

when full.

In Escrow

A wealth of personal problems. I am very motivated

by this prospect, despite the asbestos in the vinyl,

which can’t be helped. We are all infused with a little poison.

Something died in the walls; fetid, sweet, it’s chirping

at my nostrils. But look at the way the gate curves.

I would cut off my left arm for this property.

I would do anything, I mean anything

and I can tell by the look on your face,

you’re interested.

His Greedy Hand

I’m just like a man, searching for God in bed

Who is my keeper’s keeper? His greedy hand

on my head. I wake up to his eyes, watching me

like an alligator in a Florida bathtub

He paints with the brush of the righteous;

moods like scripture.

Proof by Exhaustion

Incidentally in a body

you’ve not yet reckoned with

Ancient ache to dry his tears

with your hair and eyelashes

Hungry child at the breast

of a reluctant Madonna

How the world was formed

fracturing against itself

Brute force

is the only force

God in the Footprints

This isn’t a world anyone longs to repopulate

and it doesn’t love me enough

Anyone could find a sunset ugly and would

if it made sense at the time

The cat with one eye

The ultrasound scan of my ovary follicles

The jolie-laide

I bury my face in it all

When it goes you won’t hear a sound

not even the hiss of air leaving your tires

I ran breathless

stopwatch in hand

Who gave the baby the car keys?