dry moose meat

fills my senses

with memories of home.

when my mother

would sweep the yard

of dry twigs

and crinkly leaves

and gather them all up

in one huge heap

under the mango tree .

then she would dig

a tiny hole in the bottom

of the pile

with her wrinkled hands-

scratch a match

watch the flicker

and throw it in

and we her four children

would watch the leaves

scrunch and dance

with the billows of smoke.

and we’d smell

the earthy goodness

and warmth of home

on hot afternoons.


(These thoughts were originally drafted on December 2009 when my Indigenous elder friend shared with me a piece of dry moose meat. He hunts.)



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