The Whales Above Us

The whales above us
are sleeping where God used to.

That is what the boy
on the island said when the ocean

rose over his house.
He lives in Cleveland now, where

a woman with hair
on her chin shoves him gently

into the tub and covers
his face with a washcloth, whispering

words she stole from Job,
or Jonah, maybe, I can’t remember which.

Both, I know, were swallowed
by the terror of that God, and both, I know,

somehow emerged. But
what hope is there in a world where

love is penury and penance?
The whales above us hang in dark currents.

The woman moves her finger
across the boy’s black wrist like an eraser.

Absolution comes about
through prayer, she says, by forgetting what

was done to us, calling it
long ago and far away, where the sun

was like coals upon
the ocean’s tongue, so that it sang in words

the stars taught it.
Before the moon, that distant force, heaved

it into our hearts
and set us crashing against each other,

and the whales
took their secrets to the far corners of the sky.