Heard Song

By Alana Prochuk

“Male humpback whales (Megaptera novaeangliae) sing a repetitive, stereotyped, socially learnt and culturally transmitted song display that slowly evolves each year. [...] [S]ong themes recorded in 2016–2018 French Polynesian song matched song themes sung in 2018 Ecuadorian song, suggesting continued easterly transmission of song to Ecuador, and vocal connectivity across the entire South Pacific Ocean basin.”
 
-Josephine N. Schulze et al., “Humpback whale song revolutions continue to spread from the central into the eastern South Pacific,” Royal Society Open Science (2022) 

​Humpback whale song. The bass line goes like
Dock rocking under sunbeams, creaking. And the melody
goes like 30,000 kilo puppy. Squealing glee in a tussle.
Then sulking and crying. With falsetto notes of There’s a ghost
in your glass of water. Circle the wet rim to hear her whistle.
The song ripples on, chirps on, moans on. Its waves
swim four kilometres to be listened to by neighbour whales,
who riff and pass it on. The phrases morph as the whales teach
and learn a new song, brimming with tropical fish. The herd song.

Humpback whale song. The bass line goes like
Rock slickened by sunbeams leaking. And the melody
goes like Flirty mouth of killer guppy. A squalling fleeing the tonsils.
The songing undying. With falsetto notes of There’s a glow
in the vastness of water. Circle, wetly roam. A hearing vessel.
The song whispers on, purrs on, drones on. Its ways
swim more kilometres to re-glisten to the nadir whales,
who swiftly pass it on. The phrases surf as the whales breach,
turn, accrue songs. Swimming with pop-rock flourish. The heard song.

Hymn book whale song. The grace line goes like
A wreck of silken sky. Sublime seeking. And the elegy
goes like Flurry south of colour, muddy. All in. Feeling the gone souls.
The dawning of dying. With together notes of Never knowing
the path which was augured. A certain deadly bone. A fear visceral.
Longing wisps of song. Dirges blown. Gone away.
Swim, for calamity has its mission too. Serenade whales
swiftly, before they pass on. The praises surface as the whales reach
and yearn. A blues song ringing atop rocks. Courage and hurt song.

---

Wayfinding

By Alana Prochuk

Addiction, internet,
            Googling,
                        Google itself
                        Reasons,
                                    For addiction, internet
                                    For anxious attachment,
                                                Caregiving, inconsistent
                                                Enmeshment, parental
                                                Disposability culture,
                                                            From swiping heads leftwards,
                                                                        Dimpling empties into bin
                                                                        Too clanging, filtered, bleach-fanged, feline
                                                                        Or too human-fleshy altogether
                                                                                    You do this, you rot-heart
                                                                                                To kill time, admit it
                                                Dooming factors, misc.
                                    For Googling,
                                                            Still,
                                                                        At 2:19 am
                                                                        At midlife
                                                                        After renewing How to Break Up With Your Phone again,                                                                                                               Skimming it in front of the return bin
                                                            “Why don't I read anymore”
                                                            “Am I getting stupider”
                                                            Existential
                                                                        While covered in crumbs,
                                                                                    Why chips not fruits,
                                                                                                Fruits are crumbless
Search term autofill,
            As oracle,
                        Midway-boxed robot with pain-lined jaw and roiling egg-white eyes,
                                    Feminized,
                                    Chipping,
                                    Dispensing common knowledge from a grinding porcelain palm,  
                                               Discriminatory
                                               Democratic
                                               Urgently sought
                                               Shot through with crimson
                                               Sticky on index
            Others have searched this!
                        Solace,
                                    Partial
                                    Poisoned
                                    Sleepless,
                                                While guzzling blue light,
                                                            Ulcerating
                                                            Fizzy
                                                            Incinerating the sleep position
                                                            Blaringly dyed
                                                            Probable carcinogen
                                                            Singeing lines,
                                                                        Abutting the eyebrows
                                                                        Upright
                                                                        Mean
                                                                        Congregating on hinges like fortune's rust                             
                                                Bloodshot,
                                                            As fox glinting:
                                                                        Famine
                                                                        Dawn

---

​Alana Prochuk (she/they) works for a feminist legal non-profit and is slowly co-writing a musical about tenant-landlord relationships and queer kinship. Her non-fiction writing has appeared in The Globe and Mail and Bitch Magazine; this is their first poetry publication, not counting their highschool yearbook. Alana lives uninvited on unceded xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səl̓ílwətaʔɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) homelands.