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.