NOw she is telling stories. Now,
many children sit near her face
and the billowing of her hands,
gathering in the incense of
other places, other times. With
them there are mothers, and a few
fathers, and some have copies of
the book open on their knees,
lips moving. She finds a small boy
near the front, and lifts him
out of anonymity with a sweep
of her creator hand. She makes of him
an Inuit boy whose grandmother
is starving. The boy eats for his
poor grandmother. A Salmon. A Seal.
A Walrus. The Whale. His belly grows;
his eyes bulge, but there is
no stopping now, there is
nothing he will not eat
for this grandmother, storyteller,
dream maker, raven eyed woman
teaching with her hands and face
this terrifying beauty of the world.