Is there a word for how the heart
Sinks, before the conscious discerning
That there is something wrong?

One spring morning, I found
Our tortoise silent, despondent like 
A stone. I lifted him with fluttering

Hands. He had lost half his nose,
One eye was closed. He looked 
Bruised, but past it. Already accustomed,

Like a boxer. He’d had the night to think 
And learn to consider himself lucky. 
He seemed to say: you too will grow 

To accept my broken face, its finality, 
The fact that even armoured things
Are subject to hurt, to change:

 
Nothing is ever spared.

©

Lorelei Bacht (she/they) is a European poet living in Asia with her family. When she is not carrying little children around or encouraging them to discover the paintings of Edvard Munch, she can be found collecting bones and failing scientific experiments. Her recent work can be found and/or is forthcoming in OpenDoor Poetry, Litehouse, Visitant, Quail Bell and The Wondrous Real. She is also on Instagram: @lorelei.bacht.writer and @the.cheated.wife.writes.