Grandmother’s snapping turtle soup:
steam rising from octagonal
bowls, wafting slowly up to the rafters,
spoons plunging deep into muddy
broth like a prospector’s pan,
lifting out a glinting sharp bit of shell
here, a curved claw there. Smoothly it
slides down your gullet, as once
it lowered itself
into the murky dregs
of Grandmother’s rain barrel out on
the back porch. How many hours
did you spend at the barrel, peering,
thumping, flicking, teasing him up
to the surface? Cradling the big
spoon with stubbed-off fingers you
picture his long neck, beak flashing in
the light. Old snapping turtle got
his bites in; turnabout is just fair play.
(Originally appeared
in Danse Macabre)
