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LETTER FROM THE PRIBILOFS

Elizabeth Beaman to her sister,

Pribilof Islands, July 13, 1880

Blunt, bullying, this season’s bachelors climb

the rocks near Nah Speel, sleek backs blackening

the waters inside their seacatchy. The old

bulls line up in rows as at a burlesque

house, while their matkas roll in surf, thrash

upon the parade ground’s volcanic sands

turned glassy from the constant passing of seals.

One by one the bulls slip the line to claim

their females, each dragging his choice to a private

catch, as the bull gathers what he can,

the matka cuffed and bitten on the throat

if she struggles, the bull shaking her, banging

her down upon the rock until she rolls

her belly up, blank eyes wet in supplication.

This is how I imagine it. The event being

“no sight a lady should witness,” the Senior

Agent forbids me from the rookeries; John,

my husband now these thirteen months,

must privately describe it. Libby, he tells me,

you should see how soulful they are, it is

amazing to watch them weep. He takes joy

in their human qualities, recalls tales

of selkies who turned to seal-like girls

in surf, braiding their hair in seaweed plaits

to chain an errant sailor’s legs. And yet,

in seasons such as this he goes out with company

men to kill the mating seals in their rookeries,

drive them to ground with wooden clubs.

I’ve heard the sounds and smelled grease fires

smoking after skins are flensed, seen John

creep back from work, clothes spattered with blood.

How many months to be endured! And all before winter

comes, its long months unpunctuated by sun—

And yet I can’t complain, having begged John

to take me, a lone white woman at these edges

of the Pribilofs. Reluctant first, he is, I think,