It’s true that they live longer than we do. Maybe because,

more than any other species, they don’t give a shit.

Did you know mermaids when tired rest their heads

on the backs of sea turtles? No? That’s because I made it up.

Mermaids are always tired. Like us, they long

for the sturm and drang that only human companionship can offer.

Turtles have no such desire. The turtle’s night-light turns off

each evening and it sleeps without worry about the next day’s tide

or what absurdity may happen in the corridors of power

above the shimmering surface, each scute on its back conditioned

to grow thicker by the day. Under its shell though, the turtle

remains tender. I know because I ate one—accidentally—

thinking snapper soup referred to the delicate red Caribbean fish.

Which leads me to this: never double-cross a turtle.

If you do, don’t let its sad eyes fool you into thinking it’s forgiven you.

Turtles hold anger inside where it moves freely from grievance

to grievance beneath a protective dome. Vigilant and hungry,

they wait for the right time to latch onto their prey,

dense neck muscles built to tug and tear, knowing, when its predators appear,

stronger and more agile, there is always plan B:

retreat, burrow, blend with the sea floor. And wait.

Soon every other creature will be gone, and it will be safe to emerge,

limbs a little stiffer, a little slower, sediment sliding off its back.

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