Loomings

Before a scan

the horizon feels a bit
cRoOkEd  .  ,  .
Love is heavier
more vivid
riskier.
Words bend on the page,
trip in my throat,
hide in my brain.

Are you hiding in the tumors?
I ask them.
But they don’t answer.
Maybe they motion to each other
to keep quiet.
Or maybe they are right there
mocking me
from underneath their most powerful shell
of my fear.

Before a scan
the calendar 

becomes a jellyfish.
Solid but amorphous
or liquified
or gaseous
Benign, perhaps,
but maybe a monster
that could swallow me up.

Before a scan
everyone sunbathes seaside
while I try to scream,
There may be a child
drowned in the waves!
But I don’t scream.
I know they can’t hear me
from where I sit
On the precipice
that is invisible
to everyone but me.

Before a scan
hugs earn an extra instant and
kisses offer a tougher lip.

The sun burns more easily,

and the moon paints

reflections

that are, somehow, 

more precise at their edges.

The picnic basket 

is a more complicated lover

and enemy
and a headache
is an approaching tsunami.

Before a scan
the whole planet slows down 
and the universe speeds up--
or maybe it’s the other way around--
tides are stronger
and weaker
and stronger again.
We are suspended above it all

Seagulls
omnipresent
and yet alone
buried
with a candle
and a match
somewhere in the sand.

Before a scan
the big white whale 

in the basement 

looms
ready to swallow us up
and spit us out
with an answer.
Or not.

There is no map
and the only truth
that remains 

steady

in the waves
is 

love.

To read the first chapter of Herman Melville's Moby Dick, click here.