In the Dreams of Whales
Grant Fraser
In the dreams of whales we are the sons of Ishmael,
Fleet of limb,
Sheened with droplets of water, droplets of air,
Crammed with kindnesses.
In the dreams of whales
We are the half-heard song
That makes harmonies of storms,
The gentle line that joins eyelids into sleep.
On the lips of anger
We are the syllables of assent,
In fallen hearts
The rising wind.
In solitude, we are the watchers-by,
In war, the word named peace.
In the dreams of whales
We are the sons,
We are the sons of Ishmael.
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The Muses
L. K. Holt
Man spills oil O Petriana.
O Al Qurain, upon the meniscus it goes,
ten-thousand feet of Jesus.
It sways at the current’s suggestion, blindly
the teleologies of the tide.
It beaches itself O Sygna. O Era it holds
feather to feather to skin,
locking out the ingredient for flight.
The tarry birds on white sand,
they are simplified, as holes, an inverted
starry night O Kirki.
O Laura D’Amato, the mangrove’s fingers
are useless now. A seal pup’s
flippers stick to its sides, a sink-stone O Nella Dan.
O Sylvan Arrow, fish rest
under the slick’s shadow, an oasis of reference
in the blankness of sea,
like death in the blankness of time.
But O Esso Gippsland,
the blackness is worse.
To listen to this poem being read by the author, click here.