Whales

A faucet is like a telephone for whales.
It rings every time I do the dishes,
and when the drain gets clogged
I'm left with a sink full of voicemails.

A sink is like an answering machine.
I delete the day's messages then go to sleep
where I dream of whale songs
and wonder if there will ever be a day
when the pipes aren't filled with telephone wires.

 

A whale is like a toothbrush,
A wintergreen behemoth,
bristles like spears:
ivory, the color of crashing water—

 

I wish they wouldn't call during dinner,
selling their stories
of whale warfare and the aftermath,
of being watched by bright-shirted tourists on boats,
of singing songs to islands and laughing
at the stillness of the ocean floor,
the way it sits there and hardly says a word,
the way it leaves the phone off the hook.