In this corner, yak skin. Over there, wolf skin. These, horse skin. Those, there, woven. This is my wife. The polished samovar, my mother’s cups. Sit. This pipe is given by my brother, a wedding gift. This is a brass figurine made in the North. This is a flute. About the weaving: This pattern is of the cypress forest where my wife & her mother & her mother’s sisters & her grandmother’s sisters were born. This pattern is of the river shore. It is true my father died there. It was taught to my wife. This pattern is the lake in the trees. In this corner, no fires only a lamp. I sit & imagine what my scribe will want to hear in the evening. A pile of skins is less prone to centipedes & rot than a sack filled with straw, sand, leaves, even hair. This pot is filled with deer meat & salt & milk. This is my daughter, stirring.
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