By Julia McMullen
The green of land is a distant memory.
First, the creaking of the ship,
Then, blue, white, sea-green foam:
As the ocean groaned with my presence,
My very bones became quicksand
There in the roaring, slipping down.
My eyes stung with salt;
I didn’t feel the brush of teeth,
Leviathan in the deep, snarling
For me, before I could become a fish,
Before I could become smooth like
Sea-glass from the waves,
My skeleton, for that is all I am,
Now a skeleton
within a skeleton,
green bile swelling up around
me in the dim, red flesh walls oozing
I pray for a swell,
for a sign from God,
that this whale is a miracle
and not a curse,
that God found me refuge
in an unlikely prison.