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Trilobite
Lore
Brown-limbed
children, their bare feet callused against the sunblasted
rock, walk across desert with the bent spines of old
Berber quarriers, stopping only to poke at the limestone
matrix with fingers hardened to bony chisels. They
search
till dusk for trilobites, fossilized trojans of
a long unsunned race, dug from the basement of an
evaporated sea to spend their afterlife in Moroccan markets
beside spices and bolts of cloth, and earn a few
dirham from curious foreigners.
A black cinder
cone looms over a Mojave carpet of sage and creosote, a
silhouette already ancient when the first humans scrambled
over its slope in yucca sandals. A hunter
of peccary or
bighorn sheep was the first to spot a broken sheet of red
shale, half-buried in the loose lava, embossed with the
petrified eye of a god. A gift to guide the hunter out of
the dark.
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Tule
Lake Segregation Center, 1946
Windblown
dust cakes every sill, invades through cracks around
closed doors, erases chalk lines, screens the Sherman
tanks and armored car patrols from view, but not from
memory.
Gaunt-faced children scratch their kanji
names in rain-packed earth with sticks. Nothing grows in
the shadow of watchtowers and heavy-wire mesh but the
bitter weeds used to weave baskets.
Rows of tarpapered
barracks cross the dry lakebed like giant
brushstrokes raised from the white quartz, burnished to a
smooth jade.
Oversized windows swing open like gunports
or shut against the groans of protest, riot growling in the
thin smoke-laced air.
Some walls are hidden under a
canopy of olive drab vines with heart-shaped leaves like
faces, worn-down to blank bone; eyes dead to the sky,
mouths filled with sand.
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