Oh, the whales! In the sea, breaching waves, free to be
just a mom, or a calf, not baleen, or whale blubber—
no more brigs, no more sails, not these ships, that they flee,
not the past, but the now, the whale fishers. They’ll shoot her
and scrub her, her meat sold, and her fat—but a plea
to see her there in the sea. I’m a mother. So is she.
For dVerse where Björn has asked us to write anapestic tetrameter. Well. . .this is an attempt. I had a second stanza, and I just scrapped it. I think the poem works better without it. This was definitely hard.
This poem is also for Earth Day, which is today.
Several years ago, we visited our daughter and her wife who lived in Boston at the time, and we went on a whale tour, where we saw whale mothers and babies. Whales were a significant trade in New England and elsewhere in the nineteenth-century