The Hagfish Await

By Matt Bernier 

 

Sorry for the inconvenience, but I think

you should know that the hagfish await,

right whale carcass bobbing for days with

the buoyancy of the ship that struck her,

 

afloat with last gasps of salty air and

gas from tons of undigested zooplankton

as containers head to port in diesel fogs;

whale’s belly rolls skyward as the sun rises,

 

summons winds from corners of the Atlantic;

the unreflective ship calmly hosting a wake,

hull as stony and gray as granite island cliffs,

unyielding, not even a sobbing rain to stream

 

down cheeks of deckhands as paid mourners;

another day, another hit in a vast conspiracy,

the dark slate wings of skates below flapping

like godfathers’ overcoats in seaside winds;

 

a great white shark delivers prayers and the

whale falls, wailing seabirds depart the mass

and the hagfish get to work, rasping away

evidence of a crime, spineless nervous systems

 

a few million years older than thought itself,

not pondering the tragedy of huge, stilled heart

and empty jail of skeleton, justice unfulfilled,

docked ship unburdened of our guilty pleasures.