They’re cutting the flesh of the whale, the diminutive fins, the blood.
They bludgeon, without mercy, their dark torsos –
their flesh jumping like the powdered flesh of butterflies.
You used to be an animal like me,
as big as a jaguar’s left lung or a child’s palm.
How will I ever feel alive again if you have divided
the wind between your teeth;
if you have tormented the bees to suicide;
if you have taken the bronze shadows out of my mouth.
What condition does it find itself in –
like a lizard in the early evening.