Whalefall

Whalefall

By Thomas Froh

The sea is a state of grace. A parent who speaks to us in tidal murmur, leaves notes in rockpool and touches us with rain. We draw our hand along its shifting skin, the hand a hull, to dredge oxytocin and cod. Beneath these surfaces, distance draws away from distance to hide the dance of life over a drifting carcass mother.

Our ignorance on this matter is forgivable. We cannot fathom our place of birth deep in hydrothermal vents. That was aeons ago in the world's subconscious, its sulcus trenches of earth. Proterozoic silence exists to preserve us from ourselves.

Besides, what creation need know its source, and what maker would demand that it learn? That the unthinkable darkness teems with life is enough, our return is inevitable. Every pair of lungs is destined to be filled with saltwater, which is, itself, a type of benediction. Whalesong has always been the purest type of prayer, coral our greatest cathedral.

None of this is an allegory. Here is the allegory:

Between your Ionian silence and Celtic fury lies a space, a certain depth, that waits for me to return and make it whole.

Yet, watching your sputtering shorelines, I know I never will.