Helen Lacey

Great White Shark

Failed megalodon, with your furrowed baby pink gums

and five slit gills small enough to store credit cards and receipts.

Do they hurt to touch? Are you as soft as you seem

in photos, your nose a dull, doughy point that fits

snug in the palm of a gloved hand? Or do your eyes reach

deeper than we thought; do they extend backwards like thick

mold in the attic after a three-day rain? I imagine you carry

the sea with you; that you keep a pocket of salt water

between your jaws. I would like you to stand ahead

of me on Ash Wednesday, to see how the priest draws the cross:

Where is your forehead, and can two smudges stay?

After sunset, I want you to hold me under

your dorsal fin and swim to the deepest place you know;

then, tell me if you are afraid.

Helen Lacey was born in Baltimore and studies writing and cognitive science at Johns Hopkins University ('24). Her stories focus on family, grief, and adolescence.