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.
About the Author: Laurie Kutchins' poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Ploughshares, Kenyon Review, Georgia Review, Southern Review, and other places. She has published two collections of her poetry: The Night Path (winner of the Isabella Gardner Poetry Award) and Between Towns. Her essays have appeared in The Georgia Review and various anthologies. Kutchins teaches creative writing at James Madison University, and offers private workshops that explore and nurture interconnections between creative and therapeutic processes. She lives in Virginia.
"The Voice Outside" copyright © 2006 by Laurie Kutchins. The poem may not be reproduced in any form without the author's express written permission.