The Turtle

by Beth Coyote

Two lane blacktop, hot summer day All the windows down A snapping turtle in the road, in the path of the car My father stops, gets out Picks that fifty pound hulking creature up by the tail Hefts it like a tree stump, a bag of onions, heaves it into the back of the car Snapping turtle on the floor of the Chevy We are holding our ankles on the seat Away from those jaws Imagining our young bones snapping in two My father, saying nothing, looks for water, a stream, a creek Finds one, pulls over, opens the back door Hand closes around the tail, big as my arm Flings the turtle into the water, drives on In the back seat Lingering smell of stink, marsh, wildness, fear