Seconds after the car crushed your shell
and blood dripped to the pavement,
with no facial muscles or vocal chords
you let out a gasp, mouth wide open,
a hiss I’ll never forget.

Turtle, did you see the woman
who ignored my shouting, my waving hands,
and plowed on through?

Were you guided on that spring day
by the generations before you, whispering
in your ear, telling you to leave the pond,
and lay your eggs in the soft dirt across the road?

Made of bone fused to ribs and spine, this much I knew:
a broken shell can heal with glue, and gauze, and love,
though it might take a year or two.

Each time I tried to carry you
to the safety of the sidewalk,
your sharp-toothed jaw snapped back.

I had no plan, yet stood my ground,
guarding your large, ancient body.

It’s just the way we are,
always doing things fast rather than right.

Try not to judge us all the same, Turtle.
There are those among us who care.

Like the yellow-shovel woman,
followed by the blanket-and-cardboard box woman,
and the scoop-you-up-tuck-you-in woman,
and, at last, the transport woman
who whisked you away.