Impossible Kisses: The Turtle At The Center Of The World

Part 4 of 4

“Tell me about death,” Alison said.

The turtle at the center of the world
standing with the Earth on its back
turned its head to look at Alison.

In the foggy light – mostly white,
washed through by greens and blues –
Alison saw stars in the turtle’s black eyes.

The turtle at the center of the world
standing with the Earth on its back
spoke like peaceful thunder:

“The Earth rides on my back,” the turtle said.
“The heavens extend in my eyes.
When I turn my head you know it.”

Alison said, “You didn’t tell me anything.”
“I still don’t know anything,” she complained.

The turtle at the center of the world
standing with the Earth on its back
yawned, slowly, indulgently.

“Tell me about impossible things,” Alison said.

The turtle at the center of the world
standing with the Earth on its back
looked away from Alison.

“Impossible things happen,” the turtle said.

Alison stamped her foot.
“Tell me something useful,” Alison said.
“Tell me something real. Something meaningful.”

The turtle at the center of the world
standing with the Earth on its back
coughed, cleared its throat and said,

“The cohesiveness of consciousness dissolves
when conceptual conflicts assert themselves
under perceptual pressure driven
by the quest for hierarchical understanding.
That is all you know on Earth
and all you need to know.”

Alison frowned. “Isn’t
that last bit a quote from Keats?”

The turtle at the center of the world
standing with the Earth on its back
pursed its lips and blew.

Alison fluttered like a leaf
to the sidewalk in front of her home in Wisconsin.
Alison stood on the sidewalk,
thinking about possible and impossible things.

The turtle at the center of the world
standing with the Earth on its back
breathed in, then breathed out.

The turtle at the center of the world
standing with the Earth on its back
turned its head.