to catch a whale 

i used to drop the fishing line
out the window of my bedroom
hoping to catch a whale.
my father taught me. showed how
to pluck out a tooth & tie it to
the thin line. he never caught one.
instead, he waited. thunderstorms
came & left. moss grew across his back.
i sometimes would find mushrooms.
my favorite were the tinniest ones
that bloomed around his neck.
waiting is my inheritance. a family story
says i am the descendent of 
the patron saint of "someday."
once my father felt a tug on the line.
i was small. the house have grown
another floor each day. clouds would
sometimes walk through the hall.
the lock on my door fell out &
all the house ghouls came to put
their eye in the hole where the knob
had been. i sat with him. he stood.
he asked me, "did you see that? it was
right there!" i had not seen it.
even now i am not totally sure he actually felt
a whale. i hope he did. i lied, the way
all daughters do to their fathers.
i said, "i did. i saw it." we held our breaths
as he felt the line again. nothing. i put
my finger there too. nothing but
a little thread. i did the same without him.
i kept having vision of calling him
in the middle of the night to say,
"i got one. i finally got one." 
i still don't know 
what we're supposed to do with them. 
maybe it would have become a house 
or maybe it would save us
or maybe it would just lay, all muscle & bone,
rotting in the front yard. 
become a feast for the crows.