The Futility of Turtles

The car did not stop. Wheels
continued to spin as my father
and I looked to the curb -
the struggling turtle
attempting to work its way
back onto its feet.

Its legs, splayed to the sunlight,
flailed in the crisp breeze
of a day just beginning.

Later, I went out with Mother.
She told me stories about how
she had been dreaming
of being raped, of shooting
her husband, and as I tuned
the voice of convolution
into a studded white noise,

I began to imagine her,
on her back, her arms reaching
in futility for the sky
from the dark recesses
of her verdant shell.

I laughed (foolishly).

After all, her shell
has no color.