Snapping turtles don’t frequent houses of worship.
Instead, in my childhood town, late spring,
they’d bring church traffic to a standstill, crawling
into the middle of the road to Blessed Sacrament.
Then they’d freeze there, perhaps defiant, confused,
or simply oblivious to blaring horns and muttered
curses. Some men would stay far back and poke
them with long sticks, toss stones to no avail.
Grandpa, though, would laugh as he slowly rose
out of his rusted Chevy pickup. He’d lift one
of those behemoths by its thrashing tail, claws sharp
and flailing, and lug it off, set it free in a vernal pool
deep in the woods, while the other faithful sped
on to Mass. Always in time for Communion,
Grandpa assumed his place in line, sometimes with
a blood-stained gash in his newest Sunday slacks.
But he’d stand there anyway, all sweaty, smelling
of leaf decay and buggy, stagnant water, of something
so ancient, so powerful one might deem it sacred.
