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Gail McConnell |
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Narwhal (1) |
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Narwhal (1) |
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This living under glass is all he knows. Or living with its threat the encroachment of ice. In Arctic waters the corpse whale roams. The fear of suffocation drives echolocation. The echo after pulse confirms/ denies the dot dot dash dot wish to live with news of air holes or their lack. That horn which is not horn but tooth, biologists misread. Jousting lance, they said, his tusk which seemed less tusk than sword a nine-foot spiral-structured blade. Perforated to perfection, its a survival aid. Our bare life prompts invention. |
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| Narwhal (2) |
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| The beast receives and reads the sea that purls into each cavity. He knows where icebergs melt and form by measuring salinity. Any loss of sensitivity is deathly here, he knows, though the ocean spreads below, the ice above, on on it goes the capture and release of water in the hollows. The problem is the cure the scouring and discharging sea. Salt accrues in apertures the price of intimacy. |
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