OCR Text |
Show Blue Run/6 surf, a sea turtle struggles. A goddamn sea turtle, big as a buffalo They nest in dunes between the ocean and highway, and signs warn of heavy fines for anyone who fucks with their doings. It grunts and belches and hisses through its beak, makes six-inch thrusts up toward the dunes that it won't make by nightfall. And this with the Mexicans giving it all kinds of hell. They dance circles, rapping its briny shell, singing son of a whore, son of a whore, son of a whore which sounds holy out of their mouths, like some miracle is going on this second. The women sashay by and I think to say something in Spanish And still, this sea turtle puts out such an effort as to astound us for a good thirty minutes as they sun gets low and my mama's lovely brown eyes see something I've never seen The boys push her from behind, and the men get their whole shoulders into her. The bull-chested brothers lift and push the shell and this helps, though its all out illegal, sure as shit I join in, help, put my shoulder to the task, though I know-don't fuck with a turtle. The pretty women, maybe the boy's mothers, offer soft words to encourage us, to give us strength, or that's how it sounds, like they urge us and this sister turtle toward a nest where she can lay in peace as the sand cools and the day fades and the stars come out, and the sand crabs walk sideways. Lay awhile before the easy trip down to low tide. Reenter the ancestral waters. Swim home, sister. That's how I'll remember the afternoon. Me and the Mexicans. The olive-skinned women with love on their voices, the blues and the lard-ass turtle, some pink in the sky, sand in white whiffs. Soft voices. I dig in, hoist my shoulders into her, help the men lift as the boys push and the women chant. |