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Chosen - poem
Cross Currents, Fall, 1998 by Ben Wilensky
Down in the deep, swimming with the dead, The whale has stayed too long, praying. It is cold, and black, and now she's blind with fear. Her lungs are bursting. She must have air. The climb is steep, perilous. If she does not rise and take the light, Pressure will crush the heart. She rolls her humpback three times over in fierce ascent, And then she blows, Ambergris and bottom fish, Gushing oil and gushing mud, Dating back to Noah's Flood. The skies erupt with a murderous streak in heaven's hide, The aftershock of genocide, A long time ago. When this whale was in her infancy, a mere ten ton, She was chosen by the Holy One To lift the Ark on her wide back, And carry me home. So it was done. Now one eye gleaming, slant eye beaming, She circles my ship, stately and slow. With a queenly grin and a mock attack, She hurls her body over my back And swallows sun. Jump into the sea, she cries, and play with me. Leap onto my hump, and ride. And when you do, we will sing with God.
Allan Douglas Coleman
COPYRIGHT 1998 Association for Religion and Intellectual Life
COPYRIGHT 2000 Gale Group
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