POEM
Tricyclist and a Turtle
Molly McQuadeMinnesota
snapping turtles
clutched by little cities
are wet busts of moonstone
wreathed in scum,
the gray self sugared,
half a lot
of granite
phlegm stopped
upon a chaise longue,
that incoming
pod of him
dunked,
thorny hooves aswim.
Lichen licked him,
then he quivered
in the stem,
and didactic stoicism stitched
him tight with
a neat twine.
Even when
tapped on the back
by a barefoot tricyclist
with a bulging wheaten midriff,
he does not respond
except that
a flagellant
paddling worm
nested in
the necropolis
of his nape twists
in disgust
under the skin,
keeping all the grim social hate
safe
in him.
Source: Poetry (August 2004).
This poem originally appeared in the August 2004 issue of Poetry.
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