Saturday, September 28, 2013

Marco Island, 2007

Under the sway of a setting saffron sun
And equally a rising alabaster moon,
They blink awake, sea turtle hatchlings,
Lumber forth on graceless limbs thickly
Slow, constrained by ancient history.

In our sealed and sanitized hotel room
A telephone beeps loud, insistent, long.
The front desk (revolving door releasing
One by one these faceless men in suits):
We'd like your help. You see, the turtles.

We dim the lights and close the curtains.
Turtle babies seek the sea, and lights
At night, the modern way of life, creates
Confusion, misdirects, not just the turtles,
By the way (instinct easily derailed).

Heavy draperies deceive us. We wake late
And sluggish, think it's six am, only six,
When it's really half past nine. We are
Perplexed as newborns, brains that push
Southwest when currents pull northeast.

Like hapless tourists in England, who
Drive rental cars through fog and rain
On the wrong side of the road. Or is it
Now, and was it once, before time itself,
Intended as the right side of the road?

Before roads had sides.
Before there were roads.
Before the concept of 'before.'







3 comments:

Mary Gilmour said...

That's a lovely vignette - and I like the way you have structured it.

Like a lot of your stuff, it will, I am sure, keep popping back into my mind in layers.

alejna said...

This was beautiful. It was amusing and haunting at the same time. I love the way you captured the disorientation. (Of both the people and the baby turtles.) I love the many places your mind visits.

Christine said...

timeless. wonderful writing again, Sarah.