She is squealing
for the whale and calf to swim to her.
She wants to touch a whale.
“Come to momma.”
“Come on, baby, light my fire.”
I want something else.

She wants to nail Leonard Cohen
his next tour through.
Images rush me:
Chelsea Hotel, now Berlin,
and Suzanne down someplace salty.
Alleluia.

She asks, “Did you touch a whale?”
It’s good luck to touch a whale,
someone told her. I am still
on Leonard Cohen, him touching her,
him coming down from Mt. Baldy,
robes hung on a peg, running from Roshi,
but back on Boogie Street.
“What’s it like?” I ask to ward her off.
“Plástico” answers the tour guide.
In my hand, a harpoon.
I want a harpoon.

-Ann Spiers