Whale Watch

If I did not weep at your funeral

If they ask why the cries have gone silent in one ocean

I forgive 

 

you, You

 

who woke early and drove me from Hartford to Providence

who pointed to a water tower in the distance

before we crossed the state line glowing fire in the sunrise

 

I am 13. I am bleeding

peeling skin bits off nail beds, practicing 

flip turns and race starts in my head,

staring hard through black birch and maple, 

trying to spot the base of the tower while 

 

you, you 

 

stare ahead through palm fronds and sweat beads 

trying to spot muzzles on rifles.

 

Do you remember? I was five

I looked up at 

 

you, you 

 

who took my picture from the upper deck 

smiling before your lips froze, hollow as that toy 

slipping from your pocket like Jonah into some biblical belly,

eyes locked in devastation—in the only moment where you knew 

 

me, me 

 

watching my world go upside down,

swallowed by water without end,

fading into darkness without floors,

I stared through tears burning, past sea spray cutting

as tails breached the surface and everyone cheered.

 

When I was older, you told me a stories

Do you remember?

The train ride south from Fairfield to Florida, 

the trip you had never taken

but memory is black and white familiars,

vintage stills with figured edges that pulled you from us,

photos heavy 

like whales sinking to rest in Plymouth Bay, or

like the box I carry, ashes to altar, 

as the congregation whispers, 

“Peace be With 

 

You,” you, 

 

who were never quite here nor there 

but somewhere between the trees and the pavement

once 

floating eastward at the break of dawn.