Shark’s Tooth

From what tacky tourist trap did it come, that keepsake, that ocean’s arrowhead? I think my grandparents brought it back from their one & only Carribean cruise. It rode around in my pocket for a while, a talisman luckier than a rabbit’s foot or a saint’s ear. It was not much bigger than a mole’s snout, but sharp, so sharp. I imagined serried ranks, sierras, & the circling fin, evil twin of the sail. It was—I recall—a kind of off-brown, the color of moldy leather or dried blood, but shiny enough to serve as a mirror for something not quite my reflection but sharper than a shadow.