Allegory for a Whale

Published in the Spring 2017 issue of Gyroscope Review

The air smells of salt,

as purple orbs float like dinghies in the sky.


We walk down cracked sidewalks,

sand grains grinding in the crevices between our fingers,

all the while our naked flesh collides.


I go colorblind,

and sounds of sirens become a rather ornate symphony.


The dreams I’ve had in weeks past melt into each other,

squares becoming trapezoids in the shape of your heart.




You inform me of a new kind of art—

unlike our shared past,

bracing for the unknown future yet to come.


Losing our virginity all over again,

we reconcile, as temporary distractions meld themselves back to time,

leaving the construct behind.


We walk.


And our steps are each a different shade,

yet they are complimentary,

paired perfectly.


We cry as we die, the lies nothing at all.

Puzzles once broken are recycled—even galvanized.


Roots of unlike trees grow together,

as the deciduous dance with the coniferous.


We find the keys hidden in the drawer,

underneath the letters I could never force myself to release into that unruly, unkempt wild.


And this landlocked mass of love floats

—belly up.

Alexander Rigby