The Occasional Whale
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Some say there’s sound coming from black holes.
A kind of ancient groaning that’s nearly a song.
Maybe there’s an old woman in there singing to a black dog?
Maybe something being formed already has a voice

and is already praising? Maybe it’s a school of seeds
breaking new ground, or a baker kneading bread (someone
has to make the communion wafers that turn into Christ)? Maybe
they’re laying down train tracks, or sculpting dragons that turn

into fish? Maybe they’re discussing new places to hide light?
I don’t believe they make shadows. We do that. Maybe they’re busy
placing bullfrog tadpoles on rocks near the edges of ponds, and making
manta rays leaping from a midnight blue sea, or the occasional whale

that also sings? Whatever the case may be, I should really be composing
an ode to the chair that holds me every morning when I write, or to my pen.
So many nearer things churn in my dark, almost singing mind,
and black ink is already spreading over white, dreamy waves.