Torpedo was once just the name of a fish.


More common than you’d think, these animals doubling
as verbs, more than enough


for the bestiary I penned, then abandoned,
the spring you turned nine. I wrecked it


mixing in reversible verbs: dust, yield, bear.
Grief isn’t an animal


to be swallowed or trotted out.
You’re already four Januaries ago.


The girl who sleeps in your bed now
doesn’t believe you were ever here.


Even my tax return that year made light of you,
mine for only a quarter. A joke,


is that what I’m making
when I try to trace your shadow.


Love, I wish you well-photographed.
I kept your report on bats,


your jar of Nutella.

Megan Snyder-Camp is the author of three books of poetry: The Forest of Sure Things (Tupelo, 2010), Wintering (Tupelo, 2016), and The Gunnywolf (Bear Star, 2016). She is the recipient of fellowships and grants from Bread Loaf, Djerassi, the HJ Andrews Experimental Forest, and the 4Culture Foundation. Her work has also appears in Ecotone, the Antioch Review, The Hopper, the Southern Review, the Sewanee Review, Field, and elsewhere. She lives in Seattle.