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Sea Turtle

Sea Turtle


I’m trying to make
love to my college
girlfriend, it’s three in
the afternoon, and

she swivels her hips
back and forth like she’s
trying to rock a sea
turtle over

onto its back. It’s
not that she’s not in
the mood, she tells me
she is as I see

the heat rising off her
skin like summer asphalt,
that funhouse mirage
of air and mist and

dead skin all melted
together, waiting
for release. Maybe
it’s because both our

heads are full of fun,
Gus and the other
people are waiting
for us downstairs, or

time has come to an
standstill, watching us
as if we were the

only transparent
combination of
cells on earth stretching
intrepidly toward

the mind’s finite grasp
of infinity:
the body she wore
that day like fashion’s

newest output was
a geologic
canvas of color
and hills, valleys, caves,

outcrops of seaside
architecture: and
I was the brazen
sand crab, climbing on

ev’ry follicle,
ev’ry element,
ev’ry daydream
of sex under the

influence. Her back
and forth rocking was
not inviting so
much as anatomy’s

reflexive way of
shaking off the curve
of surprise: the sharp

of her roommate then
walking in, scanning
the tangle of sheets
for skin and gossip,

scares her and scares me
not for her view of
our nakedness, but
for the in-the-cards

that she will enter
with a Gorgon’s head,
staring me into

stone, leaving me rocked
into endless
submission like a sea
turtle counting stars.

Marc is a life-long Chicago resident and currently teachs English and Film Studies at Thornton Fractional North High School in Calumet City, IL, where he has taught for the past 19 years. He is a graduate of Southern Illinois University at Carbondale (B.S.) and National-Louis University (M.A.T.) He currently lives in the western suburbs of Chicago.