The trilobite climbs from the kitchen sink and sits on the draining board. Spring ahead of its appointment opens crocuses and daffodil towers of yellow. A wood fire circulates heat into the radiators, hot coffee circulates heat into me. Sunlight falls into the sink for the first time this year and rainbows catch the eye of every bubble, bright to the corners of the room. I wash bottles and teats in the smell of isolation and lemons. The trilobite makes noises like a cat watching sparrows pick crumbs from the patio. Its carapace is mottled burgundy. As I pull the plug he tells me he evolved in my wife’s forgotten lunchbox. Water drains, reluctant as a teenager from bed. I cocoon you in blankets and we take the trilobite down to the river so it can be free.
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