Weight, In Passing
Because it is still
early, the sky is skimmed
grey, and the three men working here
have little to say to each other.
They drive the truck closer
along the sand, ready the winch
for lifting. This is a solemn
thing, and the day is quiet
as communion.
They open
the whales
with chainsaws — the ribs
enormous crescent moons,
the blubber an awkward
afterthought.
Without mirth
they haul the soft masses
onto the flatbed. It is the hearts
they are after, large
as cars, with veins
a grown man could crawl through.
*
Hello Friends —
Today’s poem comes from the young poet Andrea Haslanger, circa 2002, and is unpublished.
April is National Poetry Month, and I am celebrating by emailing out my own eclectic selection of one poem per day for the duration of the month. If you wish to be unsubscribed from this Poem-a-Day email list at any time, please reply to this email with a friendly unsubscribe request (preferably in heroic couplet form). You may also request to add a consenting friend to the list, or even nominate a poem.
To learn more about National Poetry Month, or to subscribe to a more official-like Poem-a-Day list, visit www.poets.org.
Enjoy.
Ellen