Memoirs of a Galápagos Tortoise

I am the remnant.

The last time I saw
the seafaring apes of old,
they were lugging
my cousins in crates
onto their oak vessels
to become living larders,
till there was just me
and no others.

The goats, the goats,
of all the creatures
to pilfer my own larder.
Servants of the seafarers,
they pillaged the green,
everything above shell height.

So I wallow in my pool
on the isle of Santa Cruz,
the last of the Pinta Island tortoises,
but not entirely alone.
They gave me two companions
with dome-shaped shells
instead of a saddle like mine.

Every egg they've collected
was a hollow curiosity.
I hid from them for decades,
now here I rest, diminishing
into a monument to something.

I'm just content
to drift into sleep.

(This poem was inspired by the story of Lonesome George, the last of the Pinta Island subspecies of the Galápagos giant tortoises. Stay tuned for more poetry coming soon.)