By Jeremy Pollacks. — S.G.M.
Rise, go unto Nineveh, the great city, and cry against
it that their wickedness hath come up before Me.
The moon swung seaward, like a bitten quiche.
The boat bobbed like a bathtub on a leash.
Perhaps the tub would make it to Tarshish.
Jonah swayed (slightly green-faced) in the prow.
There wasn’t night enough to turn back now.
What sort of prophet was he? One whose luck
Had been to see harm coming, and to duck!
Why not send Nineveh a fire truck?
The moon sank, and the eastern sky grew pale,
And the boat bucked, and Jonah saw a whale.
Jeremy Pollacks is a freelance Catholic writer (and whale apologist) living in Boston.