Fish Thief

He had been trundling around
on the bottom of that lake for decades,
long before they even came to live there.
They – my great aunt and uncle
who finally bought their dream house on the lake.
(His lake, if you ask me.)

But deeds and property rights of course meant nothing
to this scaly, shelled relic who had spent so many days
in glorious depths and shallows
filled with algae and mud
and plenty,
yes, plenty of fish,
his consumption of which
would be his undoing.

It was just after dark when they caught him.
They sent the kids up to the house
but we could still hear everything –
most notably, his dry, creaking, gasp
like an ancient, sealed cask
being cracked open by greedy, pillaging hands
as they put him on his back
and pushed the life out of his armored chest
with an oar
as my great aunt gleefully asked me,
her eyes glowing a bright, unnatural green
like some menacing, nocturnal creature
"Have you ever had turtle soup?"