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.