Poetry

and pour my heart out onto the soft-domed shell

of a leatherback turtle who will carry my spongy,

raw secrets into deep waters where they can hide.

 

My night thefts of love, fingers scraping

the near-empty honey pot of others,

will remain in her silent care.

 

An ancient-lined luth, she keeps the unlovable half-truths

I tell myself intact even when she deep dives

for sea grass; small comfort pulled up by the roots.

 

When she does come up for air

she must be quick; refill her tortoise lungs—

one explosive exhale and rapid inhale—

 

or else the lies she bares because I cannot

might slide out of her reptilian reach.

Then who will hold them?