The Last Boston Accent on Earth
I.
It sounds like the whale
deep-seated in layers
of prehistoric strata.
Like the beam of a lighthouse
eroded by
the crumbling bluffs
of the Cape.
And it’s funny because
it makes people think
of buried places and fist fights,
no, it does not matter
that you are stretched
over a coffin where no one
will yawn an a over
your name again.
The funeral is
well-attended by scientists.
They come to gather
samples of your dialect.
So you remember nothing?
No. You cover your heart
in crumbling bricks.
They know how
to see themselves
out.
It sounds like a breath
held in too long.
Like that ancient museum
where they keep old recordings
of animal sounds, where you opened
your mouth to an O and imagined
a beast with wings would come out.
The muscles where your wings would be
are burning, pumping cement.
As you atrophy, your mind
constructs a family gathering.,
the noises you would make together:
a cry of grief, a lighthouse on
a crumpled bag
crushed underfoot.
Another story, your cousin begs,
tugging the stone of your arm.
So you give her the one you have left:
II.
Once
when you were a child
you poked a plastic shovel
in the backyard dirt
and dug up a whale skeleton.
It sang on the wind like
the lighthouse underwater,
like the withered petals
you watched your mother press
into the last rosary bead,
her lips savoring a prayer
that would not save you.
You did not know
what all of this meant.
So your fat fingers slapped
the shovel over the bones:
Pat pat. Go back
to sleep.
Jennifer Jantzen is a writer and educational professional based in Washington, DC. Her poetry has appeared in Alexandria Quarterly and The Disappointed Housewife. When not working, she dreams of dogs and performs with her punk band, Girls on Toast. You can find her work @stone.fruuit on Instagram.