Whale Tails

Poetry written in response to Herman Melville's Moby Dick

[raeasunshine17-blog]

"Was it that this old carpenter had been a life-long wanderer, whose much rolling, to and fro, not only had gathered no moss; but what is more, had rubbed off whatever small outward clingings might have originally pertained to him? He was a strict abstract; an unfractioned integral; uncompromised as a new-born babe; living without premeditated reference to this world or the next." (Melville, 357)

Delayed Company

I

The door always hesitates to close. The window is open. My skin is riddled with bumps and the arms around me are my own. And there you are, eyes on a screen.

II

Covers to my chin, my back to you, your back to everyone. The bed slumps from the weight of your company.

III

The warmth of your bare skin fills the space between our backs. Without a word, I pull the covers close.

“Do you feel safe?”  

[raeasunshine17-blog]

“...believe not the artificial fire, when its redness makes all things look ghastly. To-morrow, in the natural sun, the skies will be bright; those who glared like devils in the forking flames, the morn will show in far other, at least gentler, relief; the glorious, golden, glad sun, the only true lamp--all others but liars!” (Melville, 328)

In the suppressed shine of Christmas lights, my pillow case is slowly stained, mascara and salt. Drunk faces go unwashed  until sunrise. Text messages and voicemails sent to the void of sleep. Rethinking my thoughts, the day, the week. All of it gets mashed down into a thick soup whose remnants build up around the corners of my mouth. Waking up there are birds and countless replies to late-night paranoia. The darkness has melted into morning dew. Fresh face, bright eyes. The corners of my smile  seep until sunset. 

[raeasunshine17-blog]

“Again and again to such gamesome talk, the dexterous dart is repeated, the spear returning to its master like a greyhound held in a skillful leash. The agonized whale goes into his flurry; the tow-line is slackened, and the pitchpoler dropping astern, folds his hands, and mutely watches the monster die.” (Melville, 289-290)

You don’t love me. Night turns to day and I can’t becomes I’m sorry. A clock resets. The ominous tick, tick, tick plays on loop. I fake a smile in the cafeteria. I cry in my car between classes. You don’t love me. Night turns to day but the sky is still dark. The words “I’m sorry” get stuck in my throat and I can’t breathe. 

[raeasunshine17-blog]

“In bony, ribby regions of the earth, where at the base of high broken cliffs masses of rock lie strewn in fantastic groupings upon the plain, you will often discover images as of the petrified forms of the Leviathan partly merged in grass, which of a windy day breaks against them in a surf of green surges.” (Melville, 222)

I see you when I look into the ocean. I see you in the soda-fizz foam that rests at my toes the way you rest your lips on mine in public: just long enough. I see you in sailboats. The salty smell of your skin floats on the wind that carries them home. It reminds me of last summer, when you cradled me in your arms  and carried me back and forth across the swimming pool. Chlorine seeped into our skin and lingered until late August. If you listen to a seashell, you can hear the ocean. If you listen very closely, you can almost make out the words. I want to buy a boat some day. We could live on the water. That way we’d always be together, That way we’d always be happy.

[raeasunshine17-blog]

“...at sight of the Sperm Whale, all fish (sharks included) are ‘struck with the most lively terror,’ and ‘often in the precipitancy of their flight dash themselves against the rocks with such violence as to cause instantaneous death.’” (Melville, 154)

Countless hours and endless effort poured into a sculpture made sturdy with shaped and hardened clay, burned until it shined and shimmered.

Hidden, it sits flawless on a dusty shelf. When put on display, the lingering hand of a stranger sends it smashing onto the cement floor, shattered in an instant. A sign remains: Fragile. Do Not Touch!

[raeasunshine17-blog]

“It must be remembered, that of all ships, whaling vessels are the most exposed to accidents of all kinds, and especially to the destruction and loss of the very things upon which the success of the voyage most depends.” (Melville, 89)

Picture Frame

An existence in pieces strewn across wooden floorboards. Shredded paper, broken glass.

My favorite picture of us, you kissing my cheek in a friend's apartment, torn from its frame. The memory, torn from my chest, is there and gone all at once.

I gesture for you to sit next to me. Our bed is an island in an ocean of rage and regret.

When you won't come closer, I stand up to come to you instead. A stray shard of glass keeps me from closing the gap. My body cries red tears.

You rush to pull me close. Fisherman’s knots unravel in my gut. Red flecks punctuate the floorboards. The sea that surrounds us is suddenly still.

If only my heart could break more times a day.

[raeasunshine17-blog]

“For years he knows not the land; so that when he comes to it at last, it smells like another world, more strangely than the moon would to an Earthsman.” (Melville, 66)

I’ve seen the sky, brightest blue and stained with sunshine, darkest black and soaked in moonlight.

I’ve seen the trees, chaotic color strewn about strong branches, empty spaces between fragile flecks of bark.

I’ve seen the lake, endless shimmery depths that sing for company, thin, frozen glass doors bolted shut.

I am this sky. I am these trees. I am this lake.

I am an imposter among the rest, feeding on memories,

pretending to move on.  

[raeasunshine17-blog]

“...a troubled nightmare of a doze...” (Melville, 37)

Your warm body rises and falls peacefully to a chorus of crickets. Mine feverishly flutters like waterlogged butterfly wings. The tips of my fingers vibrate with nervousness and uncertainty. Both my lips and voice crack beneath a thick coat of stale summer air.

In hours unknown, worry disguises itself as rest. It pushes my head deep down under a tidal wave of moon-soaked blankets and star-drenched sheets. I stir endlessly, trying to outrun sweaty, saltwater nightmares.

I wake to knots pulled tighter with each breath. Regret swirled into sunlight washes over my tanned skin. Your warm body rises and falls peacefully. Mine lays motionless, like a butterfly drying its wings in the warmth of the sunrise.