6 p.m. in August

I’d been riding my bike back home 

After a long day in the bleeding sun, reading and swimming

And eating ice cream that I’d sweet

Talked out of the prepubescent counter-boy. 

I found her along the side of the road,

Upside down and still spinning from the impact

Of the car that was now only taillights 

As it fled down the sandy turnpike.

I’d told my mother I’d be home by four, 

And the sun was nearly setting, so I couldn’t stop for long.

I almost crashed my rusty steed as I watched her 

Kick her legs, unable to flip around.

I thought at first it was a mirror,

How much I saw of myself in that turtle.

It was the summer, right before school,

And I felt stuck just like her,

Turned three times and asked to walk away again.

I flipped her over and held her up;

As I looked into her eyes I tried to feel a connection

that would pass between us like in stories.

Since it was not a story she just looked at me 

And I couldn't read her mind.

Setting her down in the salt-crusted weeds,

I got on my bike, and I rode home to my mother.