The Right Whale in Iowa

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The shag rug of a Great Plains buffalo, 
 a flightless bird
gone to stone: over its fellow keepsakes,

 into the archives of air,
the whale hauled a harvest of dust. 
 In the ripples of glass

sealed over songbird skins, I wavered. 
 What could be said for love?
From the Full-Serv to the Self-Serv Island

 at the Gulf station next door,
landlocked waves shivered in a row of corn. 
 The great flukes lifted.

A Milky Way scarred the underside more vast 
 than the Midwestern night. 
Dark cargoes would give themselves up

 to these shallows
that waited to take home the sailor, 
 home to the sea

of fossilized coral upon whose shoals 
 just down the road 
the motels of Coralville lay sprawled.

 Here would lie a ring
scratched by a scrivener with florid hand, 
 In thy breast my heart does rest

flung back to shore, here rest two coins 
 face to face, joined 
by the salt that turned them faceless

 as they turned to each other.

© Debora Greger