On the way to school she sees a snapping turtle
by the side of the road, its beak-like jaws
shadowed on sand as it drags its body forward.
Each morning she drags herself from bed, stares
into the closet where clothes hang like sacks. She feels like
a sack, rough-sewn and empty. At school she sits
in English class, held in a small gym where wrestling mats
hang from the walls, the smell of male bodies like
a smear on her lips. She thinks of the turtle, its ridged
carapace hard as all the years of her life. The teacher
reads a sonnet, a smear of language, words red as her
nails. She worries a small chip, watches a boy
in the first row, keen and handsome, and imagines him
without his clothes. She’s never done this before.
In the pond, the turtle scavenges for food, tears loose
weeds. She slides in her seat so she can see the clock
at the back of the room. All day it will click loose minutes.
She thinks of her mother, sagging over coffee.
On the calendar, so many doctor’s appointments.
Maybe her mother has cancer. Maybe cells multiple now
in the place she once grew, the cave of her mother’s body.
On page one hundred thirty-five in her English book,
she reads a poem by Walt Whitman. The turtle will
bask in the sun now, but she is stuck in the clay cup
of this day. Someone is asking a question, but she hears
only sounds and longs to clamp a hand over that moving
mouth. Nothing preys on an adult snapping turtle.
Out of the pond it has a surly disposition. The bell
rings. She gathers her books, moves toward the door
amid clammy bodies, careful not to touch anyone.