I live with a turtle
in cold corn field rows. He is hard.
Last time we visited a moon together,
he took my pen, his tricky art,
pliable concern caked dirty under
turtle nails.
He has not always been
a beast. Once, he had wings.
He hovered above sandstone.
I thought of his death. Afraid.
He would be ghost treasure feeding
corn field soil.
He was a well-made horse. Gallant.
Reinforced.
I bridled him. Caged him.
The Big Blue Marble called to him
with a voice
of adventure,
of freedom.
But, he was kept.
Trained.
I nailed his shoes to the dirt. One day,
I felt the Earth crumble beneath my
dainty feet.
Earthquakes and Eruptions.
The horse ran free!
I cried for a year,
spent one more in guilt,
then another in admission..
until, one firewater night brought him
back to me. He stood like a horse.
He spoke like a horse.
He drank like a horse.
But, he was not a horse.
His eyes had become chicken neck yellow.
Shifty.
He tried to stand as a horse,
but he startled
and ducked,
tucked himself inside.
A turtle. With a shell.
In a field.
Cold.
Hard.
Taking my pen because he hasn’t any thumbs.
