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."