With Only the Moon to See
By Grace Wagner
Another sperm whale beached on the shore today.
Fifth this year, I heard from my neighbor down the way
.
who offered to drive me there and back should I care
to go. Who goes to gawk at a carcass, to stare
.
as they cut it open, exposing the white fat,
the now cold intestines coiled blue as blood? That
.
is what I am thinking as I shake my head no.
He goes without me, packing his kids in to show
.
them just what it looks like when God washes up, dies.
They show it later on the news, a million spies
.
tuned in to see the latest death, just one
more. Who’ll remember this? And what of gun
.
deaths in this country? Another shooting today
but still I am thinking of this whale, the way
.
its tail lies flat on the sand, its mouth agape,
hand-sized teeth bare and beckoning. Then there’s the shape
.
of the crowd, bloated with the flash of phones taking
photos of its insides now outside, waves breaking
.
in the background, perfect setting for the selfies
I know are being taken. But what of the sea
.
you came from? What northern vastness held you when you
came out of your mother, perfect and breathing, who
.
suckled you as I have suckled a child now
old enough to die from a gun. I wonder how
.
we got here, you on a beach and me in a car
driving to that beach on my own at night. How far
.
I feel from home only five miles away. I
park my car, sit there a moment waiting for my
.
heart to stop its pounding. I slow myself down, breathe
to the rhythm of the waves, flickering beneath
.
the bare-bulb of the moon. The crowds have gone, even
my neighbor must be at home. I leave my phone in
.
the car, ashamed of it. I move to you, stand near
the gray bulk of your wrecked body. The night is clear
.
and now all I can think of are the kids, bodies
beneath sheets on the sidewalk, as everybody
.
cries and calls their mom. I will call my child soon,
but I stand now beside you with only the moon
.
to see me as I cry or don’t cry. Does it matter?