What I mean when I say water
is we watch a whale,
my son and I,
struggle on the beach
and start to hiss
when air grows thick
and the throng
of its blowhole sputters.
Move on I say no more
and my son obeys
with a gaze like Gaza
smoldering. Not a single
bird alive to sing
the living from the shatter.
Only smoke
smoke and glass
and a cello lost
from a second story window
where a little girl played
despite her daddy’s drinking
and pretended
it a door which sounds
like adore
a dance of echolocation.
I was worried
if he stared too long
the wounds would smile
and suddenly raptured
under all that awe
the sandpipers dim
and waves diminish
leave him clawing
for more. I
read there is a beetle
that eats its husk
and as it burgeons out
a brighter color
collects the shards
and buries it where
a blossom’s shriveled
to trick your plane of sight.
And isn’t that like a father
afraid of his boy?
The both of them bound
to some kind of ritual
by which I mean shedding,
until all that’s left
are lunar lights
and a cry that wafts
like lit spruce over
the day’s spent sky.
A little one playing
the cello.
Luke Johnson lives on the California coast with his wife and three kids. His poems can be found at Kenyon Review, Narrative Magazine, Florida Review, Frontier, Thrush and elsewhere. His manuscript in progress was recently named a finalist for the Jake Adam York Prize, The Levis through Four Way Press, The Vassar Miller Award and is forthcoming fall of 2023 from Texas Review Press. Email: lukethepoet.com