Kenton K. Yee

Kenton K. Yee’s recent poems appear (or will soon) in Plume Poetry, Threepenny, RHINO, Indianapolis, Hawaii Pacific, Grain, Terrain.org, TAB, Cortland, Healing Muse, I-70, Spoon River Poetry, Lily Poetry, and Rattle, among others. Kenton holds a PhD from UCLA, law and business degrees from Stanford, and taught at Columbia University. He writes from Northern California.

BLUE WHALE

Remember how I wanted to sleep alone once a month?
Now that I’m alone, sleeping alone isn’t the same.
If solitude is the whale that swallowed me,
I’m seeing through Jonah’s eyes too many times.
Ramen in winter, Manhattan in lights.
You left me with the kind of books everyone donates.
Few memories are worth saving nowadays.
You laughed, I cried. You laughed, I laughed to be polite.
Remember California—the part of San Francisco
visitors don’t see in romcoms?
I was late because I was in the Jack in the Box
making a wish and watching you
send two men away empty-handed.
The neon signs were on and off that night.
You looked preternatural, an outsized whale spout.
Chicken on the bone, grease on the shirt,
a cable car climbing Nob Hill.
And us, walking under a sagging fire escape
full of pigeons on Turk,
a block from the dive that cooks
with microwaves. Inside, we watched flies
lay eggs on salami slices we didn’t touch.
We didn’t eat and I still tipped.
Hungry, together, no joy but lights.