Mary A. Mary A. is a fine fisherwoman. You can see her on Sunday afternoons Beating the sea-grass from her nets Or cleaning the bilges of her boat. And her catch is always good, Perhaps in part because she spends Long, cold hours at sea, where the fish are, Instead of long hours bragging over coffee Of how good she is. She is a small woman, so I am surprised At the strength with which she pulls her nets From the boat, and unloads her catch. Mary is wise, too, and does not trust My counting of her money, nor my tally. Her English is not good, to my ears, Laced with Eskimo words foreign to me And sounds all screwed toward Inupiat. One day Mary excitedly called me to her boat To show me a baby seal she had taken in her nets. She cradled it in her arms like a baby And it looked up at me with huge black eyes, Whiskers aquiver and nose wiggling, Like a kitten in its sleek, wet blackness. I touched its sable fur and was surprised At the softness and the warmth. I asked Mary the next day what she had done With the baby seal and she told me "I eat it."