Scientists Confirm Ocean Is Really Scary at Night
Humpbacks can look like temporary islands, gray on gray
in this weather, gliding along the waves. So sleek
you barely notice till the exhale. Wet volcano
spouting. Krill breath redolent and blooming
all the death the sea can carry.
And did you hear about the lobster diver swallowed
by a humpback? Forty-five feet into his dive
when his world went black. The whale gulped
a bay full of water, scooping sea creatures
and stray humans in the heave.
Sometimes, as I drift off to sleep, I imagine the darkness
of my bedroom is the darkness of a whale’s mouth,
and here am I, floating among unseen jellyfish and kelp.
How long till my consciousness slips to the other side. How long
can I swim in this unexpected pool?
Thirty to forty seconds is how long the fisherman guessed
he rattled inside the mouth of his own death before being spat out.
Thirty to forty seconds. Were they filled with regrets, a strain
of unaccomplished dreams, or did his body quiver
with the melody of unsaid goodbyes?
If I got a terminal prognosis—like my sister-in-law, father and mother—
I’d want to tell loved ones, Relish this world without me.
I suppose I’d try to leave some legacy. A poem or uplifting song.
But it could only offer temporary comfort. Music and words
quickly become passe.
Did you know humpbacks are the only animals besides humans
whose songs evolve? Every year they sing their yearning
and maybe their goodbyes. In the mouth of my bedroom, I succumb
to the ritual falling, falling asleep. Dying is the devotional
I practice every night.
