Issue 2: embodied

Look, but don’t touch, he reminds us
as we crowd greedily around the nest.

And the lights should be?
Off, we say together,

extinguishing the fire
of our flashlights.

And why is that? he asks.
So they don’t get confused, A. answers.

That’s right, he nods, raising
a hand to quiet the class. A quiver

of life pulses beneath the surface
of the sand and we grow

silent for a second—
stand, rapt in awe,

as tiny noses nudge forth. They emerge
shell-shocked, the turtles, shells still soft,

mere shadows of the night.
I can’t help

but bounce forward, fingers poised
like the claw of a claw machine  

over a tiny turtle’s back when it starts
trailing behind, turning circles

in the sand before I stop myself.
It’s painful to watch; the hatchlings struggle

to move forward fast enough
to catch the teasing tide. Still,

I stay as, one-by-one, the others lose
interest and head back to bed.

In 20 years, we were told,
the turtles will return

to this very beach to lay their own eggs.
How do they know? I ask when the waves swallow

the last turtle whole. How do they find their way
back, I mean? Home, I want to say.

He looks at me for a long while, searching
my face for the answer, trying to decipher

how much to say; stops
himself from delving into the physics 

behind such a miraculous feat,
knowing full-well

it will go over my head—something about
magnetic fields and flux and signatures

of the sort. He chooses
his words carefully then.

The body knows, he says simply,
if you learn to listen.