Where We Come From, Where We Go

Behind the trailer my grandma spent
three years renting, by the muck pond,
a stranger – my uncle – smoked. I reeled in
a painted turtle twenty times. 10 feet
of nylon line and a bent paperclip.
He’d suck in the end. I’d tug him up,
loop it out of his ugly cheek, flip him
back into the weeds, splash and repeat.
The smell of my uncle, freshened up
after 2 years inside, stung my eyes, forced
the turtle back into itself. With one flick
he sent the shell spinning into the sun.
One cough and his Glock popped
the turtle over the pond, like a cloud
burst on a bright day, like when we’d say
the Devil is beating his wife.
He said it hurt him less than getting hooked
a hundred times more. I wondered what
he’d do next to get picked up and sent back.

Ryan McCarty is a teacher and writer, living in Ypsilanti, MI. His father-in-law recently started saying “these words give me hope” and that’s a fine fine thing to hear.