The Whale, The Cave and The Honey-Hook

The suit ‘n tie captain prowls the deck looking for his whale. He has grown impatient with living things. The reeds bow to his titanium ship and the wind forms bypasses around his heavy head. The whale is somewhere out there. And the darkness beneath the sea, cold and stranger to the whale, is no permanent home—so when the whale rises to drink the salt-heavy air, it is dragged through the foaming waves, hauled onto the refrigerator steel, given cigarette burns with spears, and using the sleek and tender blade of the captain’s honey-hook, its tongue is split, its fin is torn, its body quivering in ecstasy is ripped alive, first into long strips and then into cubes, and then the whale isn’t a whale anymore so much as it is one big merchant stand, where restless crowds can buy cardboard boxes of whale pieces to munch on while watching dolphins try to escape from their caves. The whale sings a weary song to greet the morning. The captain looks out into the burgundy bay.

The cycle has ended.