Requiem Shark

This morning as I gulp five gleaming white capsules of shark cartilage to make me strong again, I want another look at the terrible eye with its nictitating membrane, those extravagant fins, the ampullae of Lorenzini freckling its snout, all of that huge body on the rippled sand in turtle grass with an entourage of neon-blue barjacks, and a remora wriggling in and out of its gill-slits. I even want to touch it again, and this time not just with my fingertips, but my palm, loveline and lifeline, my wrist, the underside of my forearm. I want to press my cheek against its chaste astonishing skin smooth as a headstone, want the touch that feels like a blow, the summoning touch, the touch of reckoning, the consummating touch, as well as the stinging sandblown touch of regret, the stranger's touch on the train, the reproachful touch, even the last touch of a human who has lain down with a shark, the touch I have spent my life so ignorant of, your touch as you unbutton my shirt, the searing, unbearable touch.