The Interrogation. Michael Bazzett

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       At Half-Island

      At Half-Island, slate-gray water breaks

      over rock and plasters

      weeds like hair against the granite

      It has been this way for years

      the sea always swelling

      the tides in flux

      the breathing of the world

      And anyone who pauses to sit

      and watch the sea do its work

      will feel a deep-breathing swell

      slowly fill

      the channels of their body

      When the tide left the orca

      slack on the rock

      the men went out in tall oyster-boots

      to take its teeth

      They had a fine-gauge blade

      for the enamel

      Each tooth worn and grooved

      as wood

      a single one would fill your palm

      with its heft

      like an old flint-knife

      found in a cave

      One look at the angled whale

      said something

      was lodged in its belly

      and soon the men

      were cursing and gawping

      as they pulled

      the better part

      of a moose out

      including one

      fine-hoofed foreleg

      folded neat

      as a camp chair

      and half a rack

      of splintered antler

      I could see it then:

      The wild-eyed moose

      jolted in its crossing

      as the water

      swelled fat and black

      around his churning

      then dragged quickly down

      to be bolted

      in torn hunks

      where the broken

      antler did its piercing work

      and the orca’s dark

      life drained slowly

      into its own belly

      Maybe it is already

      too late to talk

      about appetite

      or how we live

      with rock and water

      yet listen to neither

      or how we cannot recognize

      ourselves when delivered

      to ourselves through signs

      as when our souls

      take the form of gulls

      crying again and again

      the one

      sharp word

      we all have in common—