Whales
by Willa Brosnihan
Dorsal is affection
to the larger body of relation, which goes brazen
past the coast, potent as hands are. Knuckles
convince us
as well as vaulted rooms do
towards devotion.
Getting to know you,
I feel at fault that I do not
take our palms and press
them together like conflicting fronts
of weather on a flat world. Dorsal are
our affectations,
they steer. This the only hint of us
above the water. Our vessels are a mechanism
in heave, our names are the shape
of motion. Baleen switches
like a batting eye. Our corrugated stomachs know
all air is empty, and the beneath
sinks to be touched.
We are holding our breath.
We are built to hold our breath.