shark teeth 

my father has shark teeth
& i'm the only one who knows it.
he sheds them in the bathroom
& i keep a jar of them with the rest
of the fossils. the trilobites & nautilus.
all the river spirits who have long
taken to poetry. once in the river
we found a fern fossil. the prints 
of ancient hands. i tried to resurrect 
the humidity. summer used to be less hot
or else my body was more ready 
for history to spin us. i open my mouth
to find shark teeth too. they look
just like my fathers. if we stop swimming
we die like sharks do. i have seen my father
walking the house in the night. 
a shark waits in the field, star-bathed 
& hungry. his teeth turn into seeds
to grow the world. i lose so many bones.
i begin to wonder if my hunger
is changing or if i'm becoming my father
or if both of us are just becoming
more & more cartilaginous. more prehistoric.
a wave gobbles up the chimney. 
ferns grow where windows should be. 
i saw my father eat a hole through the wall.
he saw me do the same. in some ways
we are mirrors & in other ways
a taxonomy. one of us will have
to grow legs. it is not going to be him.
the shark knocks on the windows at night
with his snout. i open them just a crack
to feed him hunks of meat. tuna & 
salmon. dried squid & chicken dumplings.
it is never enough. i am not sure if he is
my father or if my father is just
the bathroom man with a shadow 
tall enough to cleave the world.