I will raise you right this time, my shark.
Unanchor you at large from this shoal,
unlike the morning my sister and I sculpted
half a hammerhead out of wet inlet sand.
She molded your mouth too slight, your fins too fine;
the tide's shaping was tough on us both.
She never believed our father's story—his left arm lost
to a shortfin mako—and I never dissected you in school.
All my solo trips to collect you from the coast
come back too piecemeal. So for my next mirror trick,
I must steal the black fossils my sister has cached away.
Hide them in his unused winter glove. When I reach
inside, his hand shakes mine with teeth, as if to say,
"Well done, my man. Now throw all of me back."