Ash Adams
Echolocation
In torture, it is called futility musicwhen soldiers repeat one song
over and over in the dark.
Eventually, a prisoner forgets
who and where they are,
the way bats become lost
and whales die in the din
of chronic sound,
and each time I hear someone say
there’s too much noise these days
or 40,000 dead
only assholes call the police in 2024
we’re all eating lead anyways
I wonder about the science of futility—
of what goes into finding
the number of times it takes
I love you you love me
to become a weapon—
because I’m serious:
if one more woman cries out
you don’t believe me?
it will be one more woman.
If one more hospital bombed.
If one more field.
When a boy shares cellphone images
because his people are dying
my instinct is to say I love you
over and over again
but to me, he’s already dead
and to him, I was never alive.
Forgive me: I wanted to write a poem
about bats and whales,
but instead I am writing about death
because I cannot save you
and I am watching you die.
It turns out knowing
either too much or too little
leads to paralysis and conspiracy,
everything close to everything else
yet far apart, as in any darkness or ocean
from which a whale hauls onto sand,
an oversized, deflated heart in the sun.
Still, I want to know things,
about war, about whales—
killer whales who capsize yachts.
I swear I can hear them,
the ship of them:
If you cannot hear, we will say it louder.
If you will not answer, we will crash into you.
Tell me, when you feel the shape
you make in water, do you believe
you can change the ocean?
No, of course not:
you dance with the waves,
the tide, the moon,
joyfully fighting for your life.
Can you hear them?
