Turtle Soup

So  they took the turtle,
              The brown men of Fiji,
And laid it on its back
              Alive in the noonday sun,

Prized open its panzer girdle,
              Tore loose the bark
Of plastron over the slack,
              Unspun

The workings wedged
              As though behind some glass -
Gleanings for the tourist tongue.
              To its heart , shy

Ruby used to the ledged
              Currents of the sea,
Life still clung.
              A tear eased from its eye

Fixed on the blinding blue...
              Like lovers the killers fumbled with
The living warmth...
              With the taking of its heart the last fuse blew.

R.G. Bishop