Answer:One summer we found
a dead baby shark
washed up on the beach,
cut it open with a dinner knife
from the house,
and performed an
outdoor autopsy.1
As we marveled
at its
miniature anatomy,
reveled
in the smallness
of each little organ,
seagulls circled overhead.
The ocean was quiet,
barely making waves.
It kept vigil
for its tiny causality.
The spring prior,
an alligator wandered
onto the beach during my
uncle’s second wedding.
It was far enough away
to merit an absence of fear, but
nobody took photos or said
a word— we just stared
as it settled itself in the surf,
hoping to be cleansed.