Kami Enzie

The Whale

I wish I were a whale
Big as a ship, nothing
Could catch me. Nothing

Would be allowed to
Touch me except everything
Pushing me forward.

Barnacles would ride my back
But I wouldn’t mind
The insignificant company

Of small strangers.
When night falls, in the sea
It is always night, I

Could dive leagues
Down into the black
Deep, in one run sending

Blowfish, anemones,
Box jellies, sea snakes,
Stingrays, tricky Irukandji,

Blue-ringed octopi,
Crown-of-thorns
Starfish, great whites,

Stone fish, Napoleonic
Bosses and in-laws,
Unregal endings,

Gone lovers, dead
Or otherwise, vanished
Cities, even the world

In its immensity,
Whirling down and off
To lightless lacunae

The oceans rocked
By such tremendous speed.
Nothing is ever as fast

As a great whale who wants to get
To the bottom of things.
At the bottom I’d fuck a giant squid

With that great big whale dick
And get suckered off by multiple
Octopi. I’d blow my load

In a noiseless column, while translucent
Jellies and other marine bestiary without
The skin to bear it would turn away and

Blush, flashing red, then blue, then red,
Then blue, then red, not knowing
What to do with themselves over such

Resplendent grandeur.
After cool thank yous, I’d go.
Swaying in the deep, writhing,

Jiggling my fat belly, on my way
Up I’d laugh a laugh
So pure it shakes

Blubber and ribcage,
And lets everyone know
I’m here, laughing.

*

Sitting by Lake of Three Fires,
Yesterday a whale came up
To greet me. It was kind

Of silly. Okay, I said,
Staring directly at the NO
SWIMMING ZONE sign.

You’re going to have to leave.
Find bigger lakes. Maybe I can
Help.
       It ignored me

For some time, splashing around,
Doing somersaults, a shiny, spinning
Christmas ornament, unspooling

Soft threads of light out into the small,
Quiet grayness of the day. Its body
Was the size of the Chrysler building.

Just then it started singing a song
So beautiful the water started breaking
And morning waves smashed marble

Crowns on the extruding riprap.
I cheered in place, jumping wildly,
As rocks stood still and listened.

Pink clouds were greatly blown over
And the sun rose. Alright alright
Alright. You rose the morning sun?


That’s an ancient trick. Yesterday’s news.
Not impressive. Let’s have the moon.

I don’t know if the thing ever heard me.

This morning lying with my face
To the single room window, I see
My neighbor’s lights come on

Yellow from across the lawn.
As I walked home from your
Place last night carrying outside

It rough emotional freight,
Trying to figure out who
Was lucky to have whom,

He was outside curled over
His porch railing, vomiting
Along receding colonial posts

By the house’s cement foundation,
Into permafrost and snowpack.
He looked uneasy and sideways

At me and asked how I was doing.
Okay, I said, just here trying to get
Everything inside out of me and be

Done with it.
He nodded something
Sympathetic, a strand of vomit
Unspooling from his purple lips

Before splashing down to the pool
Of cold stomach juices. I didn’t know
What else I could do for him

So I walked home and watched
YouTube videos until 2 A.M.
Around when he also went to bed.

Now I see him awake inside
His bedroom with all his lights
On trying to figure out what hurts

Most, why he’s so drunk again,
Maybe who he is-is. In the clean,
Lighted room he’s searching

For reasons, as I hear my roommate’s
Coffee grinder rising and rising
And rising. Getting closer to the end

Of its projected lifespan as
a guaranteed, reliable thing.
I clap in the dark

And the man’s lights go out
Fifteen minutes later. I want
To lie down, so I do, and stare

At my caged air conditioner,
Then at the antique heating
Grates carved into my floor.

I turn to the wall, which is
To say, I turn most into
Myself. I clap my hands

Once more, twice,
Huddled against shadow,
In wait of an encore, any encore

To appear, for anyone
To hear. I’m here, behind
The curtains clapping.

Kami Enzie is a Vienna-born, New Orleans–raised queer Black writer. His work appears in Chicago Review, Common Place, Cotton Xenomorph, The Glacier, Oversound, Oxford Poetry, The Poetry Review, and Quarter Notes. He is an alumnus of Tin House Winter Workshops, Vermont College of Fine Art’s Postgraduate Writers’ Conference, and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. (IG/BS/X: @yungwerther)