Just Turned Eight

Running the bayou's hard
Packed trail, I lucked on a turtle,
Slow claws working away.
Excited that now I could make
My Mother a beautiful comb--
The shell with its hard shine,
Its squares striated like
Agate--I took my hatchet,
And hacked at the yellow bottom
Plate. Yet the body
And the shell ran bright red
With blood and clung.
I couldn't separate muscled
Meat from carapace.
I shoved the turtle under a bush,
Wiped, and wiped, all traces
From these hands,
Not murderous since.