I don’t know how to talk about it,

this beached whale of being,

so I talk about trees

tell you about the velvet strings of canopy in moonlight, the speck I feel

under the ancient cedars.

                               I know which plants to eat. mouth filled with sorrel and violets

I try to say life

                               to tie us to this soil, leaf-drenched reality buried in mushrooms

and eternal rebirth

and I know our ribs crack into tree branches only

when we have swallowed these gills into lungs,

but some days I am inconcrete seafoam.

I try to touch your hand, slip through,

but this whale will unbeach itself, I promise

someday we’ll find ourselves breathing,

                               the forest sighing in dark rain

we hum into life somewhere in this intricacy

                               remember how to be, earthy bodies dewy with indigo drops

freshwater frogs singing in the mist

                               we are part of this rooty place, even when we sink.

the ambivalent whale disintegrates

as I recall my skeleton, bright and real.

Callista Pitman spends most of her time walking through the suburbs, lying on forest floors, and crying to podcasts. Her work lives in several local short story anthologies and contests by Vocamus Press and the Guelph Public Library, as well as various notebooks and untitled Google documents. Callista Pitman currently lives and studies in Guelph, Canada.