The Whale
Nov 7 · 1 min read
The whale mourns, its voice intangible
but reverberating,
tickling our skin so that we know it,
know there is a presence here that is
both all-encompassing and a terrifying void.
She swims because otherwise she’d drown.
Directionless, she speaks to everyone,
her tears an ocean of poetry about what was,
and grief follows the slow movement
of her fins, her tail, her mouth —
clinging, clinging, a companionship built
from tired muscle and weary memory.

