Blue whales are out there somewhere,
six thousand of the hundreds of thousands
that once roamed the planet’s seas.
Now separated from each other
by thousands of miles, they moan their loneliness
four octaves below middle C, so low, so slow,
we humans cannot even hear. But on our ocean liners
and in our lighthouse kitchens, the cutlery jangles on the table,
the glass pane vibrates in its frame, and we know
something nearby is crying out in need.
Two thousand miles away, they can be heard
and answered, the loudest sound made by a living thing,
and we don’t know what it says, but only that,
speeded up ten times, what we hear is a long, blue,
unearthly note, a gurgle so deep
we slip down into our own lostness,
grateful that they are carrying for us
something bigger than we could hold.
—
Gail Rudd Entrekin has published six books of poetry, the latest being Walking Each Other Home (Longship Press). She is editor of the online environmental literary journal Canary (canarylitmag.org) and Poetry Editor of Hip Pocket Press. Her poems have been shortlisted for six established awards including the Northern California Book Awards and won the Women’s National Book Association Prize. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her poems are widely published.
