December 26, 2016

Shark Teeth

You scour the beach,

sifting slowly through wet sand,

finding them one by one,

while I nurse a hangover,

sipping coffee

with a shaky hand.

We're camped overnight in Texas,

on the road heading south.

You lay the teeth before me,

mostly small and black,

a few larger, all sharp and serrated,

their savage work done,

saying you could make a necklace,

with this pretty one,

or somehow use another,

smiling, "It would be fun."

But I find them in a drawer,

so many years now gone,

in a small, private collection

of things found in the sun.

They're still as sharp as ever,

waiting here for me to find,

along with the necklace,

you left behind.