A green turtle
lies on her back
on the pink sand
of the turquoise beach.
The man’s eyes are dry
as he cuts
the beet red flesh
from her okra shell.
Tell her you love her,
I whisper.
Tell her:
that the soup
of her softness
will feed your children,
that you will wear her patterned shell
like jewelry on your wrist,
that you will make your wife
a dappled comb
for her thick black hair,
that when you sit on your doorstep
this evening,
having feasted on her flesh,
you will hear her
calling to her mate,
you will know her voice
in your bones
and when you turn
in the night
to reach for the soft flesh
beside you
only the tissue thin membrane
of your own survival
will shield you
from her revenge.
janetngold 