Mud Island

I swim across the slough at sunset,

a snapping turtle latched to my big toe

(I acquired him day before yesterday:

he won't let go till it thunders)

then drag myself, body and turtle,

onto the rocky shelf of Mud Island

(neither muddy nor an island but a promontory

thrust belly-up into the lake's backpocket).

Yesterday I made him suffer in the sun

till his throat swelled and his shell

flaked like dandruff but he just chomped tighter.

Tonight I linger on the shelf and dangle

foot and turtle in the shallows.

I tempt him with minnows, little silver

darters chasing themselves in a watery cloud,

no dice.

I cut a hole in my sleeping bag's bottom

to appease the self-centered bugger.

My foot leaks into the damp air,

the snapper's wet snores

tickle my ankle,

and a thousand snickering stars attest

the continued want of thunder.

Donny Davis, July 2007