Poem of the Month
It could be the stomach of the whale,
or the white skies of June,
any sick feeling in the gut—
this waiting, scratching off squares
on a calendar page.
It might be a jail cell
with a toilet and cot, the guard
walking past with his gun holstered,
and other inmates cursing,
yowling, screaming like cats.
The whale’s nowhere to be seen,
and Jonah, though confessed,
isn’t thrown overboard,
doesn’t flail green water
nor get swallowed
only to be spat out
for his cliché, specious gratitude.