Rutters and Fishing Line
Today four grey whales floated
to shore. Scientists call it an unusual
mortality event. The cause,
a boat in the dark sea cutting
through the world like the last bit
of blue slipping underneath the sky.
The boat is not a metaphor
it is a death trap, what we call
colonialism. Each dead whale
is a waxing moon waiting to bloom
& that is a type of mourning.
On the shore people gather in the daylight
to watch their bodies sink into the wet sand.
Every empty flash will live forever &
that too is a type of mourning.
Soon the whales will be gone as sudden
as they appeared leaving an ache in
the earth & it will be December for good.
The boundary between nostalgia and forgiveness is desire
I tell stories of how you grip the earth with your knees
when you pray. How I am rock tumbled smooth you circle
with your thumb in meditation. That when the earth went quiet
you wrapped your body around my fear. In this story I do not slip
a knife under my tongue when the sky rips itself clean open
in the morning. Each evening a swarm of paper wasps cower
in my belly as light blooms between my body and the truth.
On the ten thousandth day I ask when I can see you again.
Flesh and bone and liquid mimic faith and I begin
to shape my body into something minor. We press
our brains together without apology for our greed.
Some days I bring nectarines, free them from their flesh,
a pot of chrysanthemums to collect our
debris while I repeat myself into belief.
The other day I thought I saw you in line at the grocery store
and for a brief moment / I can only remember / the sound / of a wooden spoon
twisting / in a plastic pitcher / & the scent / of powdered iced tea / & that blue
china dish for the macaroni / but I was in Chicago / & you / were in Philadelphia & I
think how I’ve been cheated / & scold myself in front of the strawberries / I say
all the things I wished / for without consequence / & you are delivered / back
to the world / with the smallest bit of cruelty / I get a bundle of flowers / from the front
of the store / modest / & for the sole purpose / of beauty / they’ll stand / in the room
next to each attempt / at reverence & for days / my memory will sit / soft / not needing
to know / anything about what / I will do with the rest of living
Morgan Ridgway (they/them) is a multi-genre writer of Black and Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape descent from Philadelphia, PA. Currently, they live in Cambridge, MA and work at a non-profit. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Women’s Studies Quarterly, Mudroom Magazine, Indigo Literary, and elsewhere. Find them online @riidgwayy or morganridgway.com