When Whales Went Back to the Water

Say life began here in a tidal pool.
Or hot spring. Or where the earth’s core

steams through fissures in the ocean floor.
I like that all of these theories are wet.

I like to think of the first animal, born
of chaos and collision, molecules whipping

into cellular form. It is calming
to think about geological time scales.

Whales only took 10 million years to leave
the land and commit to salt water.

Who wouldn’t want to sing
to someone 10,000 miles away?

I like that they swam, then walked,
then returned to the water as mammals,

with live births and blowholes, diving deeper
than any other air breather to linger

for hours. I had a story about how quiet
it must be down there, but it’s not

anymore. I keep learning things about other people
that I didn’t want to know. I’ve been practising,

but can only hold my breath for three minutes.
It is calming to think about large numbers.

How many trillions of cells there are in me.
Most of them, not even human. Dividing,

dying, killing, feeding, excreting.
I feel ok today so I guess enough of them

are cooperating with each other.
The wallpaper on my phone says “tolerate

uncertainty” over a picture of a whale.
I like that I can’t see the wrist or finger bones

within its fins. I want to use the word kin
like I’ve always known what it means,

this body recalling times before topsoil,
bread or algebra, before doorways,

bull kelp, forgetting, or photosynthesis.
To reach back to being eager

and alive as our common ancestor
emerging in the flash and muck

alone, but knowing there would be more.