My father hauled a dead sea
turtle from a beach in the
Florida Keys

he coveted that shell,
he’d seen one on a restaurant wall.

I was not allowed to watch, but I
tried to see my father over the
dunes

sand spurs in my feet I pushed
upward over gentle curves of
sand to see the gutting of that
sea turtle wondering how life
was removed. 

Flies
everywhere,

do they kettle or simply swarm over
death?

I did not know I was too young. 

The angles of my father’s wrist
— 

he held the knife his
bones and tendons
rippling under his
skin

cutting, and
cutting

scraping flesh from
shell 

finalizing
death.

My father worked for
hours 

in the Florida
sun 

I watched,
and watch 

to understand this man, I’d
never 

seen so violent and
destructive. 

My father never divorced my mother,
but 

she left
him he left
her 

the chaotic kettling cycle of a
relationship: 

One would
return, 

then the
other 
only to repeat: leave – return – leave…
cutting words 

sharp angular
words 

That shell hung on our wall for
years 

seeming to decay with the
marriage.