If You Ask, "Where is Whale Watch Cottage?"
I'll pause, because the way is part of me.
This I can say -- it's in the state of Maine.
You'll find it in a reach off a sound
that mingles with Atlantic's waters.
By ferry, you'll barely see the walls,
wooden and blue-stained, up on a bluff.
On land, take the throughway to Route One,
look for signs that say Penobscot, then wend
your way down river toward the bay. There'll be
a placard for the inn
where you turn onto an unpaved road
and you'll see the cottage almost at the end.
Built in the nineteen twenties, it's rustic,
the name carved into a wide board. The rooms
are small, the floor unpolished. Simple
furniture, with a few heirlooms.
No central heat. No washing machine. Here,
memories and view expand.
Broad waters. Islands. A lighthouse
marks the gateway.
Spiced Sweet and Dry Vermouths
Whiskey from limestone spring waters
and grains, with gentian bitters,
sour cherries made sweet
by marasca syrup.
My husband Jack, who works
this alchemy into a Perfect Manhattan
under the stars on ocean's edge,
might achieve other magic too.
After four sips, he is less exact
and I am less abrupt. After six sips,
I am less withdrawn and he
doesn't exaggerate as much.
Nine sips on, I'll endure a replay
of a bridge hand and he'll bear with
the recitation of a poem.
Another swallow, and we describe
the intimate hotel in Paris
where rabbits hopped across the lobby
and birds flew perch to perch.
A deep gulp reveals
how both of us were fired from jobs,
that there were rifts between us.
A final swig, then reaching
for the cherry prize, we marvel
that we've allowed our flame to sputter,
but never doused the glim.