Mr. Cass and the Crustaceans

      Whales the color of milk have washed ashore

      in Germany, their stomachs clogged full

      of plastic and car parts. Imagine the splendor

      of a creature as big as half a football field—

      the magnificence of the largest brain

      of any animal—modern or extinct. I have

      been trying to locate my fourth grade

      science teacher for years. Mr. Cass, who

      gave us each a crawfish he found just past

      the suburbs of Phoenix, before strip malls

      licked every good desert with a cold blast

      of Freon and glass. Mr. Cass who played

      soccer with us at recess, who let me check

      on my wily, snappy crawfish in the plastic

      blue pool before class started so I could place

      my face to the surface of the water and see

      if it still skittered alive. I hate to admit

      how much this meant to me, the only brown girl

      in the classroom. How I wish I could tell Mr. Cass

      how I’ve never stopped checking the waters—

      the ponds, the lakes, the sea. And I worry

      that I’ve yet to see a sperm whale, except when

      they beach themselves in coves. How many songs

      must we hear from the sun-bleached bones

      of a seabird or whale? If there were anyone on earth

      who would know this, Mr. Cass, it’s you—how even

      bottle caps found inside a baby albatross corpse

      can make a tiny ribcage whistle when the ocean wind

      blows through it just right—I know wherever you are,

      you’d weep if you heard this sad music. I think

      how you first taught us kids how to listen to water,

      and I’m grateful for each story in its song.