All men knew a secret of the northern part of an old world, a less perfect idea. For the bicornuate woman, it is an island. If there, the birds lose our trust, we might learn their language. After all, we have been taught to read and write, to remove our hands from other work as we watch water twist into rock: to cover our wounds, staying alive light after light. For something, I worry. The moon pronounced with clarity its known topography. Our letters and lists, reconstructed grammars: they replace the ways in which we were grabbed, then pushed and shoved. A fine wife and her children set to rove with indefinite orders: lineal migration on a small scale, a purpose was not nautical, but conflictual. Of those men, we knew I could never do them any good. In this way I forget, and let the wind (river). It gales and tears at my shoulders and wrists.
Uvaŋa atiġa Naviyuk. Ugiuvaŋmiuguruŋa suli Qawiaramiuguruŋa. Apaigia John (Kokuluk) suli aanaigia Barbara (Anamaq). I’m called for my namesake Naviyuk. I’m from King Island and Mary’s Igloo. My grandparents are John and Barbara Kokuluk. My grandfather made a living as a renowned hunter and ivory carver. This poem is in part about the seabird rookeries he carved out of walrus ivory and the ones he taught my uncles to carve. Joan Naviyuk Kane on "Rookeries"
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