a few maimed specimens
are kept for children
to
look at - one baby
loggerhead, its left front leg
a jellied fin, another
flowering papillomas,
ocean water pumping
through a buried pipe.
They surface and stare,
bald heads fixed,
would snap a baby's fist off
happi ly.
Inside, under glass, stuffed
snappers and box turtles poise
and this owl, removed from a wire,
one leg burned off, feathers on end.
Grimly my daughter
surveys their fates,
glares speechless at the cheerful
volunteer guide, retracing the steps
she took just last month
with her patient grandfather,
his death still hidden in him
like her fist tight in a pocket.
