When a whale dies, it descends—
drifts downward through the salt water
like a diamond ring: lost, dropped,
escaping quickly into the darkness
before desperate hands can pull it back up.

But no one tries to stop a whale that’s dead.
It’s no precious stone. It’s so large
humans would only see it as a burden.
The stench of rotting flesh would be much more
than one can bare. So down it goes.

They call it a “whale fall” for a reason.
Once the fall is over, the name is kept,
and the corpse continues to rot,
six thousand feet under.
And all around it, life spurts out.

The texture of the flesh changes from rubber to dirt.
The skeleton grows black algae.
After the fish eat all they can,
alien worms with no gut come out to feed.
Invertebrate bacteria claim its home.

Something so large takes decades to become nothing.
Fat becomes sulfur. Bones become phosphorus.
A man can’t live off chemical elements alone
so when the carcasses wash up on the beach,
the scientists tug it back out to sea, drop it down

where it won’t bother anyone.
Where it will be scavenged.
Where it will live on
like a planet within a planet.

The funeral of the whale is the most peaceful.
It floats like something lost or dropped,
feeling most valuable as desperate hands
emerge out of the twilight of the ocean floor
and grab upwards from six thousand feet under.

11/15/2009

Author's Note: Written for my friend Abi Stokes, who loves science and poetry, especially when they're mixed together.

Posted on 11/15/2009
Copyright © 2010 Stephanie Lane Sutton