Husk of a Whale · Sara Fitzpatrick Comito

I loved you like a war zone is haunted,
full of the unknowing dead. A leviathan
isn’t supposed to die: get big as a 16-wheeler
and you set an example. Rivers traverse

counties inlaid by slavery and ill-financed
railroads; the tracks still birth flowers
of bees. Washing up it revealed over seven
days the secrets of a stinking God –

as big as we think we are, oxygen is common
currency. I stood atop Florida’s ridge
like a desert skink, looked upon
a tower from every angle of the working

class. In the rain the ground would not
stop rising, the tower now used for cell
phones, its bells consigned to rust, the bones
of its shadows mined like phosphate grants
purchase on shifting sand. The peninsula

slips its skin, beaches a husk of whale. Once,
the fossils tell us, there were mammoths.

Formerly of Massachusetts, Sara Comito has been a Fort Myers resident for 17 years. She always remembers the number because that's how old her son is. Sara is lucky enough to live with two strong, good men – the other being her stonemason husband. Her poetry and fiction has appeared in places like Pirene's Fountain, MockingHeart Review, Thrush Poetry Journal, Defenestration Magazine, Bending Genres, and Mojave River Review. Read more at Sara Comito.