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

And alive.

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

And gravel.


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,

Perhaps more;

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.


Dear stranger,

You have left us

To join those cerulean giants.

I still cannot tell you apart.

But love,

What kind of a lamb

You could have been.