fourteen poems about turtles

Its turtlesall the way down.
They wiggle their toes and the
universe flutters.
They eat hotdogs and scratch
their toenails
on other turtles’ shells.
And it’s turtle on turtle
for miles into millennia.
Turtles on stars, on suns,
on planets.
Turtles clogging up black
holes,
turtles starting tomorrow and
starting yesterday
all the way down.


Tell me what you eat,
and I’ll tell you what you are.
I eat flipper muscle
torn and ripped
from delicate appendages
of pacific greens.
Muscle that floats on curried water
next to bits of shell.


Sea turtles eat oatmeal with spoons at the kitchen table
and rattle the calla lily centerpiece
with their finger nails.


Once, a turtle saw planes and satellites
and a statue fall out
of a black hole in the sky
from a parallel universe.
The universe was caked in green mud
and avocadoes.


I heard two sea turtles clacking on linoleum,
and I offered them nail files,
but they kindly declined
and left to sip tea in the garden.


Scientists refer to the first seven years
of a Pacific Green Turtle’s life
as the “lost years.”
From the time the hatchlings enter the water
to the time that the turtles show up
in the main Hawaiian Islands,
it is unknown exactly where the turtles go
and what they’re feeding upon.
What is known, however,
is that they feed omnivorously
on limu, jellyfish, and other
young sea creatures.


Blind turtles
and turtles wearing glasses
still see
the petals falling,
the red fish swimming,
and the shells.


Some turtles
eat pink morning glories
and stain their beaks
golden orange.


Thousands of sea turtle shells
buried in the sand
make thousands of land turtles
dance.


Three sea turtles,
all allergic to coconut and olives,
rubbed lemon-scented sunscreen
on their shells.
And when I asked them,
“why sunscreen?”
one replied,
“because UV rays from the sun cause skin damage”
and I couldn’t argue with its logic.


I saw a land turtle at the zoo,
and a sign on the cage read:
“This land turtle will live to be one hundred years old.”
And there was a clock that counted down the land turtle’s time.
I watched the land turtle die.


Turtles kick up sand
and drop convolvulus bulbs
in the holes.

Two turtles in an algaed tank
lamp-bathe on a rock.
Both keep out
of the water.
Turtle-scented air waifs up
into the kitchen
where the dirty tank sits.


There was a turtle at a funeral,
and it didn’t wear a suit,
or give a eulogy.
It wasn’t a pall bearer
or a priest.
It just crawled on the floor,
unaware of where it was,
or what it was doing,
because it’s a turtle,
and that’s what turtles do.