Ben Wilensky

Prophesies

She died in her sleep,
floating on the waves,
and when she drifted into shore,
reeds and mud buried her.
Monkey tides pulled her by the tail
and dragged her out to sea.

The old whale shudders in this current comedy,
one eye opening to the light of day,
the other, swabbed by the swells,
closing, in mock solemnity.

Overhead testy gulls screech and cry
her dying was a suicide and mortal sin,
but three schools of mackerel disagree,
and claim divinity blew her breath away.

Blind worms,
buried deep within her fat,
stagger through a maze of arteries
up into the sun,
marching towards a new-born savior.

Pelicans leap, shout,
slide along the whale’s slick hump,
scratching her skin to make the dead soul rise again,
and when they fail, hysterically,
soar the skies, slash, and rip at heaven’s eyes,
squeezing through bloody holes of revelation.
Their spit and scur
bombard my face and hair.

Rational Jew, observer of the times,
I’ve been here before, amused, abused
by changing gods.
I admired my whale.
I tracked her migratory yearnings fifty years,
taping, recording legendary artistry.
She sang a song lasting fifteen minutes long
of exquisite grace,
haunting vocalise,
and when she raised her voice to click and moan,
the earth stood still.
Oceans turned to glass.
Sometimes I’d lie like a stone,
falling through space.

It was said when her spirits passed away
we’d feast on wine and noble delicacies.
Messiah would come and hold us in his arms,
at the very least teach us how to die.

Now the old queen rots in the sea,
revealing layers of commonplace death,
a barebones carcass,
a messy identity.
The nosy sharks disdain her meat,
her flabby breast.
They disappear.

Drunk, disorderly,
cruising for a fight,
I recreate the whale’s last song,
and I let it play
all through my winter watch,
bitter work,
transcending
day.

____

Ben Wilensky is a much-published poet living in Rockaway, New York.