Andy Won't Give Me His Turtle

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Early Poem posted here for safekeeping.

Submitted: May 17, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 17, 2018





By Alexander Guinevere Kern

Copyright, A. Kern, 1982



Shell. With its smooth ossified surface,

An archeologist's dug-up specimen

Of a pygmy skull-plate - that's how it looks.

The turtle is gone, where turtles go,

Into some larger critter's mouth, so

Are the ways of Ecology's feeding chain.

Anyway, the shell has sat, peeling, in the back

Of Andrew's yellow Volkswagen, full of ashes,

An enterprising young smoker tapped into the

Hollow dome of the poor turtle's former home.


It's a fair thing the turtle is dead.

He wouldn't like knowing what has become

Of the home he was born to, and into

And supported proudly, in dangerous times

Seeking its shelter, caved behind its mosaic door.

A neat spiny ridge runs like a barrier

Between the inside left and right. I liked that.


I liked the porous fossil look of the shell, but

Andrew won't let me have it. He says

He's going to paint it, but I know he won't.

He is going to forget all about it, and the shell

Will keep company with all the rest of Andrew's

Junk. Which would be okay, except that shell

Was someone's home, Andy. Some kinda dignity

Should be afforded it. If not a curator's museum,

The sure appreciation of a genius's brush

And shellacked respect - never to fade. That is art,

Kiddo. Persistence of the life-shape

Reminders of the heartbeat, even after the essence

Has been cracked from the case, and has flown.

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