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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 with decay… 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. Julia McMullen is a poet living in the Midwest USA with her husband and young son. When she isn't writing or mothering, she enjoys singing at her local church and tending to her garden.
Julia's other work on Foreshadow: Red Sea (Poetry, August 2023) Locusts (Poetry, September 2023)
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