Blue whales float in the sky
In blithe heaviness.
They have beached themselves among the clouds
Like an enlightenment,
Discarded their healthy flesh here
One by one.
The oceans were too salty
They have fled the overwhelming blue,
The flood of lives,
The ache of love,
Bearing red around their necks
Or a pharmacy in their stomachs—
Fled anew to shallow waters,
Played treacherous games in the isolated dark
Until they ended up on sand
Blue whales do not decay.
They have made it their death-home here
To shadow the buildings they blamed—
What a neat mess.
What a stark silence
Amidst the city greys.
Blue whales have rubbed our skyscrapers
For an eternity,
People have grown blind.
But I see them in the fire-cracking streets,
I see them out my teak window frame,
I see them in the bathroom mirror
At the tail ends of slippery days,
Staring into the eyes
Of who I’ve become.
Maybe I am young.
Maybe I am part whale.
Mostly, I am a lamb
Bleating at the watercolor ghosts
Trying to sink them down.
Blue whales do not go to heaven.
They have judged themselves.
You have left us
To join those cerulean giants.
I still cannot tell you apart.
What kind of a lamb
You could have been.