What is Offered

This morning’s counteroffer: 

one dead baby snapping turtle, 

more tail, nearly, than shell 

with one eye missing 

in trade for the hangover 

from last night’s dream - 

the one about your brother 

and how he faked his death. 

Nothing fake about the turtle’s 

but still, you cradle it in the hollow 

at the center of your hand, carrying 

it to the muddy edge, turning 

the one eye toward the water. 

Oh, let that one eye looking

see where to go from here, 

tail like a rudder,

head swinging side to side 

death coming into view -

then the purple asters 

bent over and frayed.