The Voice Outside

by Laurie Kutchins

What was it

the voice said to no one

a few moments ago?

I was walking across the grass

crossing from shed to house,

I was going

to write it down.

It's April

and I was impatient

for the turtle

to come forth.

I was brushing aside

an urge to pull

the layers off,

October grass and leaves

I'd piled over her,

bring the noon sun down

to her dull shell,

wake her

before she was ready

to come back

on her own.

The livid hiss

of another wild turtle

I plucked and saved

from the hill road

that unseasonably warm

week in January was still

with me.

I almost mistook it

for a stone.

Untimely neck bloodied

from ruptures

on both sides

of its thumbed head,

his red eyes pussed

under my hands.

I was only to guess

at what danger: teeth,

talons or beak.

It is good to inhabit a myth

without knowing

all of it.

The turtle is the truest

Persephone,

going under half the year.

Was it

come back to me,

the voice whispering

vowels at noon

to no one?

I was crossing,

I was going to stop

below the black window

and peer down,

and then up,

as close to the crouched gods

as I could get

reaching

toward the light.