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Snappers

Snapping turtles
are mean and fast,
aggressive
like the sun
on the road that day
I stopped to help
a 60-something couple
in golf shorts
who had pulled over
their Crown Victoria 
to grab a story to tell
about coaxing a snapping turtle
off the road.

The man held his golf bag
in front of him, 
inadequate now
in the face of a snapping turtle
who didn’t want to be coaxed,
didn’t want to cross the road
either way,
but wanted to circle
around his ankles, 
reminding him how soft
his flesh is.

Swooping in,
thinking I was a savior,
thinking I was young
and sharp, thinking 
I could just pick him up
and move him to the side of the road,
he turned fast and mean,
aggressive,
reminding me I am young and soft,
and turtles are not fools.

He lunged, 
father of snakes,
his feet sliced and slapped
the asphalt, 
scaled scimitars,
half dinosaur,
half sea creature,
his shell an unnecessary shield
behind that snapping beak.

Each time his mouth flew open
it released the hissing breath
of an opened tomb,
a vault holding the sour 
and stinging air
of a forgotten past,
a living past, a strong,
mean and fast,
aggressive past,
a past that won’t cross,
a past that fights.

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