I had a dream. I met
my great great grandfather
on a dismal New England shore.
He was a whaler—
a grim dogged hunter
of grotesque blubber. But now
he'd grown
half-blind and old,
and his industry was dying.
I could see holes
in his gloves, and in between
his teeth as he spoke—
it's so cold, and so dirty
and dark where I'm living;
I only wanted to make soap
and sell my fine candles, he told me.
I tried to console him—
don't loose hope.
It came out—don't give up
control.
