Retraction

Retraction

Triangle of orange tongued
turtle’s open mouth snapping
sinew twists on the scaled and pumping arms,
Thick neck’s strands like those raised on human necks
under the pressure,
The hackles and two flat little nostrils
and triangle eyes squeeze out
a timid sound:
Will you, won't you, will you, won't you
Won't you join the retreat?
The lobsters eagerly advance;
the mock turtle eagerly retreats.

The turtle is thick in his shell,
He tastes the whiting's tail in his own mouth, and the breadcrumbs
thrust onto the rich and green soup. Soup dribbles
from his sides of his sharp mouth.

There is another shore, you know, upon the other side,
the inside. So never mind
the thrush in your throat
or other disquiet swellings about
spending your sleepy nights on earth watching your penis retract,
hunched and pinching yourself.

There is another shore,
which pulls up snug under the blanket of your abdomen.
The turtle, snuck up inside like buds retreating
back under, the tendrils furling
petals curling and sinking,
He slinks inside his skin,
up under your
turtle shell flesh. The further off from
the nearer is to.