The Whale, Chapter 3

nanowrimo potter poems style

Helga’s idea was too extreme,
Like reenacting a bad dream,
She decided, as she climbed back up
And struggled through the gate,
Replacing the lock and crossing the lawn,
As a pair of squirrels chased each other
In spirals up the Lonesome Pine.

That was the name she and Joe
Had given that tree many years ago
When the house had fallen to them
After their son-in-law Dan fell asleep at the wheel,
And their daughter Liz remarried and left.
Liz's due date was approaching when Dan died,
So Joe and Helga had moved in to help

And then just stayed and made the place
Less haunted by living out the grace
Left behind in the wake of sadness.
Now grief and love again entwined
To make a new nest in Helga’s heart
For the coming and going of the seasons,
The arrivals and departures of dreams.

Back inside, the coffee now cold,
Helga zapped it, feeling bold
From the warmth of the sun in her bones
And the anger and hope for the election
That was coming soon and that she preferred
Not to think too much about
But rather offer up to the gods.

The coffee downed, Helga summoned up
The energy provided by the cup
To climb the stairs up to the room
Her son Ben had lately occupied
And where Ben had relocated Joe’s rifle,
A shotgun with flashlight duct-taped to barrel,
That Joe had secretly kept under the bed.

Helga fumbled in her pocket for the key
To the cabinet Ben had got for free
From a gun-enthusiast friend upgrading
To a bigger safe for his collection
In these disturbing post-insurrection days,
Turned the key in the lock and opened
The door to find the shotgun waiting.

“Sorry, Joseph, but I don’t want this gun
Lurking here and someday hurting someone,”
She said as she grabbed it by the barrel,
Closed the cabinet again and left the key.
She lifted the heavy gun and sighted as if 
To shoot out the bathroom mirror, smiling
At the flashlight jerry-rigged by her clever Joe.

---