Ghosts of Cartilage
by Izzy Toy Rettke
My friend Michael takes the form of a Great White shark.
Almost never a nuisance he turns
a dermal eye to paybacks or punch cards
unless there is chum in the waters. At rest stops we nightmare
together, of teeth pulled out and strung into necklaces.
Michael says he has lived his entire life in the open ocean alone.
I tell him he is not anymore.
Michael drives a beat-up honda-chevy-toyota mutant,
caudal fin braking like every red light is a surprise,
but hey, I don’t have my license yet. When we get on I-90
acrid rot drifts from something smeared tear-shaped on the road.
Michael says he can smell a single drop of blood
from 3 miles away.
I tell him we’ve missed our exit.
Michael pumps gas like he is running from something
but he cannot turn and face it. His father, his football scholarship,
his fresh granite headstone. We eat raw fish and
roadkill, me with my hunting knife and him with what
God gave him. Michael says his bite force is twenty-five times
stronger than mine. 4,000 pounds per square inch
a pickup truck for each tooth.
This is overkill if you ask me.
When we finally arrive at Half Moon Bay the water
shines like a reflective rumble strip. Touching salt I ask
if making something too soft is a bad thing.
Michael says his skin is made of a million tiny fingernails
that are sandpaper one way and velvet the next.
He can only ever go forward.
I tell him that is not the answer I was looking for.