Shark in a Jar

Let it be found by a child,
that smooth column of mottled skin
basking in the arid heat of a desert sun,

armored muscle on ebony asphalt
oozing a trail of slime as if to say
to the child, “Come follow me,”

into a lounge where a striking spectrum
of venomous snakes tangle
like a mixed ball of yarn.

Here lie the reptiles of North America
together in one area,
unbeknownst to the travel guides

that can only dream it exists,
but reality is a nightmare with a hellish twist
found in a back room where pain persists

in the form of a baby shark:
trapped in a glass jar,
gray like the iron flecks

in Athena’s eyes, its murky orbs
brimming with terrible knowledge
and pupils cloudy with tears

never wiped by a
motherly fin, puddled in a pool
of distress misted over

by the remnants of an iris:
a moment in time preserved
by a concoction of formaldehyde,

rotting flesh and spiraling entrails,
lips parted in a final goodbye
with its jutting snout

pressed against the glass
and its fin feebly curled in to protect
it’s pale, exposed underbelly

​

from the petrifying gaze of the child
that holds the shark in its grubby hands
balancing it in the anticipation of release

or perpetual torture as it stares
at the child with its lifeless eyes,
pleading and begging to be dropped

and freed from its chamber of pain
only for the child to turn it around
and look at the price tag

then back into the shark’s eye
and hiss a single word,
which is no.