Blue Whale

by | Jul 3, 2012 | Poetry

We always head straight for the dinosaurs,

then the ocean creatures. I goggle

at the blue whale suspended overhead,

 

gargantuan, larger than a dinosaur,

born bigger than a bus—

how can it hang in the air

 

or subsist on a broth

of microscopic plankton?

My son never pauses, he rushes

 

to the sharks. The whale’s so big

and he’s so small, he can’t see it,

can’t register an object on that scale.

 

The Hall of Ocean Life is dark blue

and dim, the whale a lighter

shade—maybe for him it merges

 

with the room. I wonder how old

he’ll be when he first sees it, and

what he’ll say. And what immensity

 

hangs over me, beyond my ken,

a scope I can’t compass? How

many years will I put in visiting

 

this dim room teeming with wonders,

jellyfish to giant squid, until

I look up and see

 

what has been here all the time?

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by idua-japan on Flickr

About The Author

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Barbara Ungar’s sixth book, After Naming the Animals, is forthcoming in June 2023 from The Word Works. Her prior book, Save Our Ship, won the Snyder Publication Prize from Ashland Poetry Press and a Franklin Award from the Independent Book Publishers Association, and was a Distinguished Favorite at the Independent Press Awards. She has work forthcoming or recently published in Scientific American, Crazyhorse, and Small Orange. Her work has been translated into Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, and Bulgarian. A professor of English at The College of Saint Rose, she lives in Saratoga Springs, New York. For more details, see www.barbaraungar.net .