White Whale

Conor Van Riper

In sixteen forty-five, a whale sojourned

some sixty miles north of Old New York.

Sag Harbor refugee, she fled the fork –

For murky Hudson ebbs and flows she yearned.

Betwixt the Norman cliffs and Boscobel;

unmoored above World’s End, she lay her head.

At ease; breathe deep the handsome brackish smell.

When sunset whispers, “pink, pale orange, red.”

Just then, the train began to stir, and with

it me. My slumber started by the sea.

Careening back to modern day – I crash.

Foolhardy child, living in a myth.

The antique highland tale sat on my knee:

a plush beluga whale – dusted in ash.