Whales

It was a good movie, a

documentary about 
whale hunters

in Barrow, Alaska.

Afterward I went home and started the grill.

I’m getting better at it—I didn’t used to eat meat.

I start it early enough now, throw on some

scrap maple, some mesquite chunks.

Then I sit watching because the patio is very small;

there are lots of things nearby that could burn;

paint thinner

old sheething

the puddle of oil under the chain saw

the jute mat. 
Lots of things that could burn.

It takes awhile

for the coals to turn red then white.

It’s nearly autumn, cold enough

that the heat feels good.

The dog watches from the grass.

My wife comes to the door holding my son,

I can’t hear them through the glass.

He looks out at me,

looks at the fire.

It was a good movie.

In one scene,

a hunter

sat on the ice waiting for the bowhead,

waiting in the bow of his skin

boat, dressed in white,

waiting.

The look on the man’s face was

like he’d been waiting for a long time

and he didn’t mind waiting a little more.

Out of site, a big skiff with twin Hondas

churned the water,

exploding harpoons

at the ready.