Sharp enough
for whale flesh
sharp enough
for a shave
hand-soap and lather
glint of mirror
glint of morning light
on harpoon head
sharp as fear
mirror reflecting
Queequeg, Ishmael sleeping
and through the
curtainless window beyond,
New Bedford
bustling with whalers
of the world, ships at port
ballasts full of
pacific, atlantic and indian
__
Queequeg with bible
in lap
measuring its contents,
50 meaningless pages a turn
a turn toward the window
toward Ishmael
toward the storm
blackening beyond
the room lightened
for an instant
or three
before the crash
enough time in that instant
to see
to read
“you cannot hide the soul”
Ishmael finds,
written in wrinkles
across Queequeg’s broad brow,
the will of god
tobacco, burnt biscuit
offerings for idols
tattoos becoming text
becoming story
meaningless until the next
lightning flash
