LEVIATHAN Michael J. Shepley
on the
concrete-ish
beach bleached
beige by cold
distant indifferent
sun sat
the bones
of the whale
chaser 2 centuries
dead
the bone tone
desert dry
rib cage
tinted a rosy-er
red in
sun setting
on the
turtle green
turning churn
South Atlantic
sea side shore
the wind
was sharp
cutting knife
edges through
the chinks
in our armor
of parka
snow pants
and iron hard
frozen mittens
and wicked salt
stung the
naked eyes
like bees,
or wasps
rather, because
they never
lose their
burning barbs
impressive
and huge
like a
dinosaur age
carcass stripped
of all flesh
flayed by
years of cool
dry rasping air
so that only
a spine of
wood born
skeleton stayed
glowing slightly like
some Da Vinci polished
white marble
tinted with a
light bloody
blush
some of
our crew
are busy
with their
cyber powered
eye, the
Foto Cyclops
that tries to
capture the
spirit of
the eternal moment
in a paler
ghost image
of the long
long past
not yet lost
we came
to the
very bottom
of the earth
for this
sight
words framed in
a northern poetic
affectation
following the
fading footprints of
oil hungry
sailors over
3 thousand
pathless miles
and
as was said
2 centuries
the poor ship
had no say
the whales
undoubtedly would
prefer things went
a different way
like neither
the sail ship
not the men
in it
were ever sent
never even did exist
in that sense
the wreck
is a living
animal monument
that resurrects,
maybe just saves,
a distant moment
still kinda
barely breathing
beneath the waves
photo: Alex Dawson, Underwater Photographer of the Year, 2024
JONAH magazine 