Luke M. Jones
You know we nearly Ishmael
and Ahabed them off
the planet. We burned
their oil and painted their
teeth—scrimshaws, they are
called. Sickeningly whimsical
knickknacks ornamented
with ocean scenes and fair
pre-Disney maidens.
Doomed to ornament musty
nautical museums with
pea-green carpets.
In a future age, when the seas
rise and humankind vanishes—
for what reason? I don’t know,
you decide—I envision whales
gliding serenely through our
museums—how do they get
inside them? just humor me—
and contemplating Botero,
Kandinsky and King Tut.
Pausing to mourn the skeletons
of their ancestors, shedding tears
unseen in salt water—can whales
cry? I know, I know, enough
already—and wondering why we
left such strange gifts for them.
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Museums for Whales