I’ve taken to watching live feeds—cameras left
in nature, so we might catch a glimpse of a brown bear

and her two cubs tearing at a salmon that was alive
only seconds earlier—orcas nudging a calf to the surface

to take a breath—I didn’t see this, but I read somewhere
that an orca carried her dead calf for weeks to mourn it—

to witness that would have been the end of me. I hold
my breath with each dive the whales take, dorsal fins

dipping below the surface like trauma, only to reappear
much later, somewhere unexpected—there is a channel

inside me, growing limbs and organs and a face
that will one day look at me, furious, as I suck my teeth

after breakfast—today, though, we witness each exuberant
breach, broadcast from some distant outpost, a communion.