top of page

Blue God (circa 1952)


Blue God (circa 1952)


My mother once caught the blue whale with only her raw knuckles:

               She’d dove into the East Sea, off the coast of Busan, watching behind


a slab of basalt until her fingers pruned, until she could suck the

               salt out of her own skin & taste the bubbles of a river spirit who


flowed out too far to stay afloat. Hours lulled into night—Silence. Dark 

               inked every film of ocean black, except the blue whale, who glowed


like a white man’s city. Every texture a lightbulb. Iridescence. Eyes

               the sharpness of a lightning strike. She ferried civilizations on 


her back, nurtured colonies on her underbelly, like a mother. She

               stretched over the entire ocean, anchored the water calm. A


mammalian myth, so vast, so beautifully tragic—my mother,

               mesmerized, leapt towards the light & through the water 


& pierced the heart in one clean strike. All around her, the blood

               brightened until the ocean swallowed her whole. Moon tides,


rising the sea into shore. Beached, we found her in one. The

               village acknowledged her, the manless whore had seized


god. She’d clean us for months from the milkman’s burden:

               the chocolate-filled hats, the white rice, rationed soup & broth; 


now, we had her. At home, my mother scrubbed off the barnacles, 

               cleaved the meat off her bony rinds, sutured the blubber into 


winter quilts, whittled a single rib into five-hundred arrows. While 

               we feasted, laughed so hard the magpies cherished us as luck, my


mother cried: every night for months until we were done 

               & hunting season returned. When I asked why, she said


it was called grieving: to castrate memory into only its bareness

               behind, like a once-garden plowed with the rising sun into


blood. That bitter afterthought of 

               nostalgia, the illusion. The myth. Withering. 

I Promise, He Is Insane



               I am a man now, my mother warns me. So


I inaugurate myself with a tunic, a basic red badge,

               pledging loyalty to a sky embossed by Community.


My village is miles from the capital—the glitz-

               pop metropolis, where the Father & His Father’s


spirit live—everywhere in every hidden

               corner of a minute, or a second. Time is a


fruit, awaiting for consumption. We stay quiet /

               We listen / We roll / Presence, like a boulder / We


roll / Trucks ablaze, cursing the god / damn / Americans /

               I’m almost there now. Recruitment. Cold sweat. Bloodied


noses, recursion of the body / of the dead / Resist living

               to live / We venerate. When I was eleven, my father


left my Father to search for the white man’s paradise down

               south. The day before he left, he kicked one of his brown


goats so hard, its tongue popped out of its jaw. Lolling,

               like a child. I couldn’t even ask why: he screamed, so loud,


voice cracking: the goat looked so much like Him, 

               like Him—           it looked so much          like Him.

ANTHONY IMM is an 18-year-old writer from Northern Valley Demarest High School. He has been previously recognized nationally by the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers and the 2023 Morristown Teen Festival of Books Writing Contest. His pieces have been featured in or forthcoming in Hot Pot Magazine, Altered Reality Magazine, and Avalon Literary Review. In his free time, he loves to watch hour-long documentaries on YouTube and listen to music. You can find him @anthony.imm on Instagram

bottom of page