By Annie Przypyszny
Whales with vast, scarred skins
like moon terrain. They float above me,
perpetual, a fleet of imposing,
taut-bellied zeppelins. It’s like
watching a slow doom drift over-
head, a serenity of hopelessness.
I think I’m ready to swim up until
I reach one of their monolithic mouths.
Let it tempt me with moan-song, draw me in
to the soft, sloshing ocean of it’s throat.
Let me rest in its dark warmth, as if folded
inside a summer-storm.
An acceptable form of oblivion:
underwater, unseen, unreal.
Not a thought, but a dream.
Annie Przypyszny is a poet from Washington, DC and a recent graduate of American University where she majored in Creative Writing. She is an Assistant Editor for Grace and Gravity and has poems published or forthcoming in The Northern Virginia Review, Jet Fuel Review, Watershed Review, The Healing Muse, North Dakota Quarterly, Tupelo Quarterly, Ponder Review, SWWIM, Lines + Stars, and others.