on a beach in Mayto—sun
a peeled orange, sand
like turbinado sugar—
we found tiny turtles
groping out of burrows
to head blink-eyed
toward the waves
sometimes crashing surf
tossed them like pebbles
and they landed belly up
feet flailing
in the salt air
so we turned them back over,
coaxed them
through the froth
toward the western sun
only one in one hundred
sea turtles survives
oil slicks, satellite microwaves
and sharks to return
twelve years later to lay eggs
in the place
where it was born
they say to guide hatchlings
toward the setting sun
when surf flips them over
can make them forget
how to find their way
back to the beach
of their birth
but we could not stop ourselves:
we picked them up
and pointed them
to a fragile future
do you remember?
and suddenly I remembered
when you took
your first steps
staggered and fell
surprised to find
you could rise up again
your hand held my finger
tight as a talisman
bootied toes heading
toward the glass
of the patio door
I held your hand
as you toddled
triumphant, your face
gleaming
in sunlight