Haklay Eenzah: Moon

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She stirs the soup,moon1

hand swirling wooden spoon.

Focused flicking wrist.

Can’t afford to let anything stick.

It must stick to ribs.

Ribs that should be hidden behind a layer of childhood fat

from dinners of moose meat fried in lard.

Potatoes. Berries. Fiddleheads.

Ours protrude

like skeleton harps.

Wooden spoon,

takes place of red willow

when we cannot pick our own switch,

transforms from food bearer to power keeper.


She cries after by the window,

quiet like a house mouse.

She knows no other way,

to show us the right way.

It is harder on her,

than on our bare brown asses.

Wooden spoon

clenched in her hand

as she stands by the fire.

The flames fueled by wood

we gathered

when the dew lay  h e a v y.

The fire

is hungry.

All of us,

                                                           we  hunger for  more.

She holds her drum above it.

Rubs it until its voice has returned.

Spoon shape shifts into a drum stick.

She sings the one song

that was passed down to her

by her Grandma.

Wailing woman

calling out to

the moon.

My mother

And her wooden spoon.

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