a shark while running

The arm of the sea sweeps onto land
like a broom. Rain comes with morning

and as the tide passes eastward, many dead things
are left for gulls: sticky bodies of clams,
black grasses my mother thinks are Nigerian thistle seeds.

Later, midday, I run north along the shore.
Ahead of me a man heaves a long pole –

a wave tenders a sand shark at his feet.

He circles the ancient thing like a lampshade - smiles
as she begins her thrashing –

a crooked question mark beating the sand,
the flat sound like slapping laundry on a line,
reminds me, it is Summer after all.

Something violent stirs my lungs
but I do not stop running, I must pass the sound.

I must not imagine the man returning home,
wet and clucking with pride. I cannot stand to think
of his bravado.

The day is hot, and I am tired of being bold.
I run past her body in its earnest disappointment.

I claw north and she looks at me, one eye
and then the next. Does she wonder why I will not save her? –
why there is not one safe place left in this world?