Turtle head, poke out of shell
and water, barely send out
ripples. Arms outstretched, slowly
tread water, breathe in
a deep, turtle breath,
wade shallow
near, and on, and over
the surface; you are everywhere.
Acorn in the years-ago ground,
simply be. An oak now. Squirrel’s song
out of top branches, thrown
like acorns—hit runners
and fish.
I cannot yet recognize
the slow smile. I stare
at this turtle, determined
that I will.
And hours pass just like that.
Crawfish shell. Empty—
that is all. On the edge of the water.
The gentle waves lap,
rock, make me crazy and
in love, in a new way.
Take my eyes, God, and open them.
Can we press our faces together. Can I find you
in the gentle curve of my own shoulder.
Danley Romero is a second-year MFA student at the University of New Hampshire. He grew up in Louisiana and is interested in queerness, surrealism, introspection and short forms. He is currently working on a collection of stories for his thesis. When he’s not writing, reading, workshopping, or editing fiction for Barnstorm, Danley enjoys long walks, staring at walls, and practicing and teaching cello.
