In Hawaii, inside the stomach of a sixteen foot tiger shark,

bodies of three intact green turtles were found

all facing forward, shells as big as manhole covers,

lined up in a row like some bizarre Nintendo game.

Held between upper carapace and lower plastron connected

to backbones and ribs, stuck alive inside a body cavity and squeezed,

they siphoned oxygen from muscle, limbs and head pulled tight

against bone, pressure decreasing inside their lungs, suffocating

bodies within another body. My father called six months ago —

sat down with the newspaper and realized he could not read it.

Infarction, compression, his right eye a melting marshmallow, blurry

edges, soft spots. Almost-dead organ — minimal light detection, no

impulses, no neurons. Now he has an ache behind his other eye,

a dull cloud hovering at the edge of his vision. Pupils search and react,

but he can barely see. I watch him from across the room

although he doesn’t know it.

The turtles lived inside the shark for twenty four

or forty-eight hours, breathing slow and scared.

I see my father, man suffocating within a body —

he senses the dark and holds his breath.