---

The white whale is hauled ashore,

his heavy body leaving deep, blood

stained passages in damp shale.

I thank this slow swimmer for coming

to the coast, for not leaving when

the rest of family made for the open sea.

As his body relaxes into the sand,

the ripped flesh around his open

wound flutters.

I think of how our organs

and skeletons are so similar.

I stand and watch my father

and grandfather cut into our

beached friend.

Blood, organs and thick intestines

spill into the churning shallows.

The dogs bray for the meaty soup,

pulling themselves back on their hind legs,

their mouths all teeth and dripping gums.

This beluga is long, healthy and fat.

Plenty will come from his carcass.

Anticipation swings about our heads

like bear hides drying in the brisk

north wind. We are all impatient to eat.

I crave the oily taste, its chewy texture

the satisfaction that I have been fed

by the sea.

My father and grandfather work fast.

Their knives are sharp, the blades

slip soundlessly through the blubber,

until all that is left is a memory of a

white whale in blood diluted with sea water.

We stock the fire with fat, chew cubes

of blubber, while mother tells us how she

once put her head into ice cluttered water,

when her father was busy gutting a seal,

and listened to the white ones gather around

the ice cap and sing a song of celebration

to their creator, Sedna, mother of the deep.