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THE STORY TELLER

How old Oleepica is no one knows
but she is old, old, old
Older perhaps than the sun, moon and stars.
Her body is twisted; her thin hair black
as raven's wing.  Her patchwork face is seamed
to hooded eyes - eyes hawk bright.

In summer she roams all day
in mountain valleys near Broughton.
She picks poonga berries to make jam;
she gathers herbs
and strings them to dry.  At sunset
she tosses a handful of dried leaves
into an old chipped teapot and brews
a liquid black, bitter as gall.
     "Have some," she quavers, "It
will keep you young.

Sometimes she tells stories
of the days when she was young
and lively as a spring lark.
She tells of her father who, eaten
by Nanook, came to life again - 
a shaman . . . seeds of his strength,
she says, are in her.
She speaks of hunting
in an umiak among the icebergs, of killing
seals.  She recalls
the coming of the white man
with his God and the Bay Store.
When a skidoo roars past her house,
she grumbles, "This is not good.
Dogs are best in this frozen land.
Dogs you can eat if you have to."
She stirs her stew, sips her tea
and puffs on her pipe, and recollects
things long past.  And what she can't recall,
she makes up.

      

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Copyright 1989 by Mildred A. Rose,

all rights reserved.
Originally published by The Music House Press.
No part of this collection may be reproduced,
except in short reviews, without the
author's permission.

Feb 08, 2012, 05:31 AM CST

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