The Squid & the Whale

He went to that museum
you know the one,
to see the to-scale
diorama of the 
Squid and the Whale.
Locked in an eternal
and dusty battle.
And he stood,
leaning a little
off his left leg,
into the railing
to see this
two-story
marvel.

He took the train 
and walked three blocks
and he'd never seen this before.
It reminded him of
the way his girlfriend
liked to pick fights.

She would wiggle her hips
and sass him,
in the living room
on the bus,
at dinner
at their favorite
Thai place.

She would say something-
one tentacle.
And suddenly
he was the slow
whale,
strangled by tentacles
and staring
deeply
into that one black eye.
It was glossy.

No,
no,
he told himself,
a little toss of his head.
That was the hangover.
This diorama was
not like his relationship.

It was his parents'
relationship
encapsulated by the
struggle. The need to breathe
and the whale's barnacled
belly and his soft pleading
eyes, small in such a great face.

He stood with his eyes closed now,
and felt the whoosh of a deep ocean
current and the salty, wet touch of
a tentacle.
He would have to turn around
and take the train home,
after walking the three blocks again
in reverse.

Was this true?
This hulking piece of
museum exhibition?
Why did he feel
suddenly plunged into the sea
otherwise?
Why would he feel tentacle
and see his girlfriend's clenched fists
if this wasn't true?

He fumbled for a wallet,
hands slick with sweat- saltwater
all over.
A photo a face
of a woman smiling
but the grip of suction cups on his throat
as the photograph

fell over the railing,
brushing against the side
of the hulking whale
entangled with the
orange glossy squid.