Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

My first whale sighting happened in the Atlantic, near Cape Cod. I convinced my son a move to Provincetown for a year would be great for us; new grade school for him; a community of artists for me. He would experience a beach quite different than Long Beach Island and touristy Atlantic City. But the clincher was that he would see marine life — whales, sharks, and seals — anytime he wanted.

Well, three hours into our first whale watching trip, we saw nothing, just a placid ocean with a few fishing boats. We’d spent our time playing twenty questions and eating bags of Cheetos. I was suffering seasickness from the rocking. Like the rest of the kids, I could see Langston getting bored. A naturalist on the loudspeaker occasionally shared some facts about the sea, such as: did you know a newborn humpback whale weighs 1.5 tons?

Just when the guide began to apologize and to promise a free pass on a future outing, seventy or so people ran to the port side of the boat. A whale breached the surface of the Atlantic and spouted water. I wondered if the whale was a mechanical creation.

And yet, the vast sea makes even a whale seem tiny against the depths. Today's poem probes into the ocean within the self — the mysteries of love.

52 Blue
by Sappho Stanley

       for Lainey

I love you & it’s like this:

In the ocean a whale sings Blue, 
52. Defined: untranslatable to all other
whales. A dying language. It’s a party fact
swapped around with a response expected 
like how sad it must be. The name we’ve given 
her futile call sounds like a football play: 52 Blue, hut
hut. I like to imagine her voice bouncing around an ocean
cavern filling the ears of whales, crabs, & fucked-up creatures
& they imagine a god: like how humans named the constellations
first & then figured out they were stars. She deserves this solitary
power. Did I mention we’ve never seen her? Her voice is like a party
you can only see the shadows of—through a stained glass, red like a blue
trumpet. God, I want to live in the notebook of a dancer—those steps 
dreamt-up like a sonnet of the feet. God, is it okay if I’ve decided
I need other gods? I need truth beauty: Like still urns & my legs
planted on earth. I’ve been stuck in a worship position for too
long. Eventually, I need my purpling knees to glow with
the answer: Songs unheard by anyone else still matter.
I’m figuring out if they do. I’ve been searching 
for truth in beauty. Like the pathetic 52 Blue
call of my whale. Yes, my whale. Beauty
truth? I was meant to find you during
the pinkest summer & you were meant 
to hear my 52 Blue & here is my
Rosetta Stone: every hello
has been an inviting red
& every poem has been a please never leave me.

"52 Blue" by Sappho Stanley. Originally published in Waxwing Literary Magazine. Used by permission of the poet.