Requiem Shark

This morning as I gulp five gleaming white

capsules of shark cartilage

to make me strong again, I want

another look at the terrible

eye with its nictitating membrane,

those extravagant fins,

the ampullae of Lorenzini freckling its snout,

all of that huge body on the rippled sand

in turtle grass

with an entourage of neon-blue barjacks,

and a remora wriggling in

and out of its gill-slits.

I even want to touch it again,

and this time not just with my fingertips,

but my palm, loveline and lifeline,

my wrist, the underside of my forearm.

I want to press my cheek against its chaste

astonishing skin smooth as a headstone,

want the touch that feels like a blow,

the summoning touch, the touch

of reckoning, the consummating touch, as well as

the stinging sandblown touch of regret,

the stranger's touch on the train,

the reproachful touch,

even the last touch of a human

who has lain down with a shark,

the touch I have spent my life so ignorant of,

your touch as you unbutton my shirt,

the searing, unbearable touch.