Lost Art
On Pico Island, whales nurse
off the coast. Each day,
a man climbs a tower and watches
the blue stone sea
for a mist breaking
the calm, then radios
to all the boats who rush
to constellation around the sperm whale
as she rolls, exhales, and finally
flukes.
They’ve spotted whales here
the same way for hundreds of years—
sonar be damned—
a solitary watcher in his tower
with his spy glass.
Though it is the first
time I’ve seen such a thing—
the breathing of a beast
that is the breath of the whole world,
the tail breaking water—
I think it’ll always be
the first time.
My mother makes her piecrusts
the old way, despite or because of
the work of it.
First there is the trick
to the right amount of water
bit by bit—don’t overwork it.
She teaches me to roll the dough
to a growing moon
over the floured table,
instead of pushing, lean
into the rolling pin—
don’t overwork it…
Knuckled edges, globed with fruit—
store-bought can’t compare,
and even bakeries’ crusts are too tight.
I must remember to do the same
with this poem—
don’t overwork it!
I’m trying to learn.
I’m trying to create
something that can breathe.
I am 35 now
and childless
and I’ve already lost
a career and a sister
and learned that
the things that last—
shores, towers, flour, water—
must be kept alive.
Jaime Zuckerman is a poet, translator, and educator. She is the author of two chapbooks, Letters to Melville (Ghost Proposal, 2018) and Alone in this Together (Dancing Girl Press, 2016), as well as recent or forthcoming poems in Diode, Fairy Tale Review, Foundry, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Nat. Brut, Prairie Schooner, Thrush, and other journals. She serves as assistant editor for Sixth Finch and a senior reader for Ploughshares. She grew up in the woods but now lives in Boston. Visit her at www.jaimezuckerman.com.