Suppose We Are Leviathan by Candyce Byrne

Suppose we are leviathan—not Jonah’s monster
but Webster’s: too large to be comprehended in our entirety.
Little bodies moored in this dimension,

souls reaching through shadowy layers
where three-dimensional senses can’t see
or hear or taste or smell.  Words

have no meaning.  All around us,
almost-significant beauties tempt us
to touch them, and we reach out in prayersong.

Suppose we are singers of the starry deep,
descending and transcending the inside-out abyss.
Suppose we are leviathan, learning to swim infinity.


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Candyce Byrne was raised by gypsies—no, not really. In a peripatetic military family. That experience convinced her that old beliefs never die but rather bob just below the surface of what we na├»vely call reality. Her two beautiful sons grew up on Childe ballads and local theatre. She lives in a mythical Texas town with her husband of nearly 40 years, a pediatrician, and an aging dire wolf called Al—well, really half border collie/half Labrador retriever, but she's big and black and hairy and the mail lady is terrified of her.


Bay Laurel  /  Volume 1, Issue 1  /  Autumn 2012