Of Politics, & Art

　　 by Norman Dubie

　　 Here， on the farthest point of the peninsula

　　 The winter storm

　　 Off the Atlantic shook the schoolhouse.

　　 Mrs. Whitimore， dying

　　 Of tuberculosis， said it would be after dark

　　 Before the snowplow and bus would reach us.

　　 She read to us from Melville.

　　 How in an almost calamitous moment

　　 Of sea hunting

　　 Some men in an open boat suddenly found themselves

　　 At the still and protected center

　　 Of a great herd of whales

　　 Where all the females floated on their sides

　　 While their young nursed there. The cold frightened whalers

　　 Just stared into what they allowed

　　 Was the ecstatic lapidary pond of a nursing cow's

　　 One visible eyeball.

　　 And they were at peace with themselves.

　　 Today I listened to a woman say

　　 That Melville might

　　 Be taught in the next decade. Another woman asked， "And why not？"

　　 The first responded， "Because there are

　　 No women in his one novel."

　　 And Mrs. Whitimore was now reading from the Psalms.

　　 Coughing into her handkerchief. Snow above the windows.

　　 There was a blue light on her face， breasts and arms.

　　 Sometimes a whole civilization can be dying

　　 Peacefully in one young woman， in a small heated room

　　 With thirty children

　　 Rapt， confident and listening to the pure

　　 God rendering voice of a storm