Читать книгу Oceanic - Aimee Nezhukumatathil - Страница 12

Mr. Cass and the Crustaceans

Whales the color of milk have washed ashore

in Germany, their stomachs clogged full

of plastic and car parts. Imagine the splendor

of a creature as big as half a football field—

the magnificence of the largest brain

of any animal—modern or extinct. I have

been trying to locate my fourth grade

science teacher for years. Mr. Cass, who

gave us each a crawfish he found just past

the suburbs of Phoenix, before strip malls

licked every good desert with a cold blast

of Freon and glass. Mr. Cass who played

soccer with us at recess, who let me check

on my wily, snappy crawfish in the plastic

blue pool before class started so I could place

my face to the surface of the water and see

if it still skittered alive. I hate to admit

how much this meant to me, the only brown girl

in the classroom. How I wish I could tell Mr. Cass

how I’ve never stopped checking the waters—

the ponds, the lakes, the sea. And I worry

that I’ve yet to see a sperm whale, except when

they beach themselves in coves. How many songs

must we hear from the sun-bleached bones

of a seabird or whale? If there were anyone on earth

who would know this, Mr. Cass, it’s you—how even

bottle caps found inside a baby albatross corpse

can make a tiny ribcage whistle when the ocean wind

blows through it just right—I know wherever you are,

you’d weep if you heard this sad music. I think

how you first taught us kids how to listen to water,

and I’m grateful for each story in its song.