A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Not buoyed by the ocean its own weight will crush its lungs and heart, just a matter of time. We wait for the rescue sling and high tide to return, the few of us, crowded in the enormous stench, the whale, hauling air inside the diminishing holds of its lungs. Low tide and all we hear is the whale’s terrible breathing, its body drying out except near its blowhole which spews a few droplets on each exhalation and makes the round vent shine like a tiny halo. Other than that, the whale lies on the sand like a long dark slab with small white bursts like distant stars. And for one moment this beaked whale is a window on some other galaxy, before there were any humans, to watch a creature dying.
Copyright 2020 Sally Bliumis-Dunn