| Prophesies Ben Wilensky |
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She died in her sleep, floating on the waves, and when she drifted into shore, reeds and mud buried her. Monkey tides pulled her by the tail and dragged her out to sea. The old whale shudders in this current comedy, one eye opening to the light of day, the other, swabbed by the swells, closing, in mock solemnity. Overhead testy gulls screech and cry her dying was a suicide and mortal sin, but three schools of mackerel disagree, and claim divinity blew her breath away. ***
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Blind worms, buried deep within her fat, stagger through a maze of arteries up into the sun, marching towards a new-born savior. Pelicans leap, shout, slide along the whale's slick hump, scratching her skin to make the dead soul rise again, and when they fail, hysterically, soar the skies, slash, and rip at heaven's eyes, squeezing through bloody holes of revelation. Their spit and scur bombard my face and hair. ***
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