Last night I dreamed about a turtle
so very small no one else noticed it.
Against it, a platoon of ants
was waging an offensive:
rush forward, fall back.

The turtle kept running
in a circle
trying to fend off the ant infantry,
which I could see, big as I was
and high as a god, was futile.

Don’t intervene in nature,
my companion said to me,
seeing the intent in my gaze
and reading my thoughts
as dream companions
often do.

I felt the turtle’s fear
its hopelessness at the looming
presence of certain death.
I could not turn away
leaving nature to itself

this turtle, marked for oblivion,
coming to its end
on what I perceive
was a Sunday.

So, I stepped in– God as I was–
during the platoon’s next reprieve.
Plucking up the turtle
in my hand,
it grew larger the closer it was to me
I reckoned

until it was so heavy
I could barely heft it.
Then, before I knew
what would happen
helpless as I am in my dreams,
It bit off my finger–

Nature’s protest
against my help
and my hubris: that I,
god as I am of ants
and turtles
could dare

to dictate the outcome
of something already deemed necessary
by Nature– or my assurance
that I could stop this age-old war
between predator
and prey.

Nature did not want it.
The ants were aligned against it.
Even the turtle was complicit
in its own annihilation.
This reminds me
of the time

when offered escape
from your abuser– said
No. Go away. Everything

is fine.


~ by ImaginaryCanary on July 29, 2015.

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