RICK CHRISTIANSEN

The Last Routine

“Two orcas—mother and son—remain in the shuttered tanks of Marineland Antibes, performing

for whoever still comes to watch.” — TideBreakers Report, 2025

Green water clots with rust and fallen light.

The mother circles once—her son in her wake—

beneath a film of algae, drift, and silence.

Four months enclosed, they still return to their marks.

When strangers lean above the corroded platform,

they rise together, he moving close beside her.

Her shadow lengthens; he swims tight beneath her,

both bodies glinting briefly in the light.

Once crowds leaned in from the raised platform,

hands clapping her rhythm, drawing him in her wake.

Now only lenses wait to catch their marks—

the whole tank breathing its slow, green silence.

Filters groan; the pumps exhale their silence.

Still they ascend—her first, then him below her—

offering the faint memory of old marks

that shimmered once beneath rehearsal light.

He rises slower now, pausing in her wake—

both turning toward the shadowed platform.

Rust powders the gates; moss climbs the platform.

Each echo lingers longer in the silence.

She flicks her tail once—he folds into her wake—

a reflex honed by years of drifting near her

toward cue and crest, the trainer’s vanished light,

their bodies taut in the choreography of marks.

Observers note the scars—thin, crescent marks—

and lift their phones above the viewing platform.

Outside, protest banners ripple in the light,

and nothing cracks the walls or breaks that silence.

He circles tighter now, shadowing her,

his fin dipping lower as he enters her wake.

Once wild, they crossed the open blue in her wake,

where the dark held them gently, a world without marks.

Here, habit binds him closer still, keeping to her,

their motions flattening beneath the empty platform

and the weight of water thick with silence.

Yet still they gleam for anyone holding up a light.

Toward the platform’s edge, the last light thins in their silence.

She drifts beside him—her wake folding into his, soft as memory’s marks.

And in that dim, he follows her through the dark that gathers her.

Rick Christiansen is a former corporate executive, stand-up comedian, actor, and director. He is the author of two full-length poetry collections from Spartan Press: Bone Fragments (2024) and Not a Hero (2025). His work appears widely, including Sheila-Na-Gig and MacQueen’s Quinterly. He was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize Award.

Previous / Next