When five, she scraped in soft, black ground

a hole—a grave—to cuddle what she found

below the steps; a baby turtle; dead.

Splayed neck and legs and cracked green shell

told her of death and worse, of disregard.

She took her sister’s glass jewel-box

and lay Turtle in on velvet cloth, covered

him over, patted, caressed his final bed;

she sang a song she’d heard the choir sing

while fashioning a cross from sticks and string.

Three days straight, she exhumed his remains

but Turtle’s knowing smile did not change.

At death, soul flies, flesh melts away, they said.

At five, she wanted only fireflies’ night vitrine

to sooth a disquiet mind; to run, to sing.