If hunted for oil, hunted for light.
After the terror, the whales swarmed.
They like the quiet of an ocean unmanned.
It’s easier to sing underwater than to see, considering how the ocean scatters light.
So after the towers fell and the ships were held at shore, the whales bellowed in the welcome quiet.
We forget how noisy we make the sea with our human engines.
Of all the world maps, I want the map of terrors largely unseen because they are oceanic by necessity, mostly due to scale.
Tiny monsters I know grow in the body, but the sea is a great place big enough for an animal that can swallow the whole ship and I need this ship to get to the other side of where I am going.
The sea itself is not a monster, more like a mouth the monsters make music in.
You monster, you, I shake my little finger at its mirror: What’s down there; how deep, Mother, does it go?
You, monster; you give me back my map.
Stop migrating to mate and return bloated with your monster babies, your monster love.
Mother of all monsters, the sea is navigable only in darkness.
If you can imagine it, you can map it.
If you can imagine it, you can fear it.
For each monster, another monster.
If one on land, one in the sea, one in the air exiled up there with the gods.
Leviathan: to twine or join its slippery parts.
Most monsters are hybrid—something we recognize twisted up with something we cannot.
There is more than one reason to jump, but one reason is attack.
They say we stopped killing the whales when we heard them singing.