The Sunken Cathedral

by Kyle Lovell

If you strain your ears
toward the westward ocean,
you may catch the faded notes
of an organ, crafted from the
hallowed and hollowed bones
of a whale’s ribcage, which had
washed ashore centuries before
by summer waves and polished
until gleaming by winter winds.

If you strain your eyes
toward the westward ocean,
you may spy the silhouette
of the organist, a child,
hunched over the bone keys
as her hands dance with
a clumsy innocence, asking
the whale to sing his songs.

If you strain your ears
toward the westward ocean,
you may catch the whispers
of an ancient lullaby, telling
of a time when leviathans
slept within sunless ravines
and the whale learnt his songs
from wandering monk fish
who recited the karmic sutra
of the sea.

If you strain your eyes
toward the westward ocean,
you may spy the figure
of the child, shining softly
in the shadow of her sanctuary.
Sleeping softly in the shadow
of a sun-sunken cathedral.