Turtle sweet

I didn’t want to know

how they used their thick

gelled bodies, the meat a stale

marshmallow, which isn’t much

better with its ground hooves and—

what I want is the nibbling

of seaweed floating through a lake

to know their nest is built in earth’s belly

the dirt of a swamp, a sand soaked

home for the smallest winged

swimmer I’ve ever seen. To learn the

millionaires decide them cute enough

to order toys to be made in their image:

shells of blocks and musical eyes. How

I like to imagine even the toughest man,

suited up for the bottom dollar, thought

it necessary for a creature to be

commemorable

before sinking his

umbrella into a shore, watching

his belly-first child crawl for the sea.