Despite my glazed, black eye, not dead, not I.
A whaling man would know better.

A kittiwake spoke and by the power of my flukes
I heaved my scarred bulk at the the sky.

Now blow-hole to the surface I am perpendicular,
at peace with my own slap and wallow.

Between the music that lulls me and the tide’s sharp tug
slides the shadow of the she-whale that suckled me.

How perfectly we swam, my smaller belly nudging hers.
I learned worship at the altar of her mouth.

Now time makes me master of this brooding estate.
Only man and the orca oppose me.

My desire is to swim. I will father many children.
My great purpose is to breech and blow.