for Lainey

I love you & it’s like this:

In the ocean a whale sings Blue,

52. Defined: untranslatable to all other

whales. A dying language. It’s a party fact

swapped around with a response expected

like how sad it must be. The name we’ve given

her futile call sounds like a football play: 52 Blue, hut,

hut. I like to imagine her voice bouncing around an ocean

cavern filling the ears of whales, crabs, & fucked-up creatures

& they imagine a god: like how humans named the constellations

first & then figured out they were stars. She deserves this solitary

power. Did I mention we’ve never seen her? Her voice is like a party

you can only see the shadows of—through a stained glass, red like a blue

trumpet. God, I want to live in the notebook of a dancer—those steps

dreamt-up like a sonnet of the feet. God, is it okay if I’ve decided

I need other gods? I need truth beauty: Like still urns & my legs

planted on earth. I’ve been stuck in a worship position for too

long. Eventually, I need my purpling knees to glow with

the answer: Songs unheard by anyone else still matter.

I’m figuring out if they do. I’ve been searching

for truth in beauty. Like the pathetic 52 Blue

call of my whale. Yes, my whale. Beauty

truth? I was meant to find you during

the pinkest summer & you were meant

to hear my 52 Blue & here is my

Rosetta Stone: every hello

has been an inviting red

& every poem has been a please never leave me.