Bokelskere.no

It Wasn't the Flu

I was there
when Keiko died.

I was turning my ankles on the slick rocks
along Taknes fjord. Lonely and abondoned 
not me, but him. 
Homesick and agoraphobic
not me, but him.

He beached himself at my feet
at my pink rubber boots, his rubbery
white belly, glistening. A thin silver zipper

from between his pectoral fins to his fluke
opened, tooth by tooth.

And out flew sixty thousand June bugs
each with a thread tied to
each of its legs.

I grabbed three hundred sixty thousand threads
and was lifted out of my pink boots, 
over the orca, over the North Sea,
the oil platforms, Scotland and Ireland
and home.