Long ago, I rode a bus twelve hours
to a town up north cordoned by limestone
and canopies of pine. It was December,
morning frost glazing the cheeks of cabbages
and fingers of bean. In the guest house, there was
no heater— only a large metal drum filled with cold
water in the bathroom, a pink plastic dipper
beside it. But I wanted to wash off the dust
from the journey, before walking to the canteen
where the innkeeper's wife offered peppery
smoked blood sausages and cups of brewed
coffee. She asked if I wanted to see her basket
of heirloom beads, and we went upstairs.
I fingered heavy strings of banded agate and
carnelian, traced the brittle curves of shell
and the interlocked keys of dried snake
vertebra. She asked if I wanted to wear them
for a picture, stacked over my bare breasts
as they used to do when this world was
still theirs. I'd come to understand what
she meant when speaking of such loss,
and how blood is not only the animal's
signature across our everyday rituals,
but also one of the cords that tie us
to the world of ancestors. People still
thread gleaming orbs of pig hearts
and lungs with twine— offerings to hang
in the branches of trees. By nightfall,
these film over with rippling wings.
In the village, I'd hear the dark
timbre of gongs. Even now, the sound
is clear in my mind. After I left, I felt
sorry I'd passed up the chance to feel
against my skin the stones that tumbled
from one generation into the next.
