May 2010 - Comments Off

The Turtle

Sara Judy '11

You saw him first, trying
to cross the highway.
You swerved to miss
hitting his curved shell,
woke me up and kept me
that way—talking about fissures

and dark wet spots.
You told me newborns
would come out of the pond
near your house. In your
sixth year the older boys
stamped them out. The one,

still moving, that you picked up
dyed your hands, oil dark.
When I drove home
two days later, I stopped
to call and say there was
no stain. The next July you

came home, hands sticky
with urine and salt. You saved
him from the road, you say,
recognized the shape of his back.
I hope he loved you
how I do when we walk

and your hand, on my curved hip,
guides me away from the road's edge.

Published by: in Poetry, Volume 66, Volume 66: Issue 2

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