SKINS

On Saturdays, the Inupiat women of Barrow
gather in the high-school with their needles,
waxed thread, leather thimbles,
ulu knives and bags of furs:
lamb, calf, wolverine and wolf.
Some women bring their children; their babies
sleep on piles of warm furs.
I am the only tunnik ,
the only white woman,
who comes every week.
Edna eyes me up for size,
draws the pattern for my parki on paper,
tells me to trace this on the skins.
She shows me how to slice through the furs
by holding my ulu at an angle.
The children, jingling quarters,
run down the hall
for chocolate bars and Cokes.
Edna and the other women chuckle
at my stitches but eventually admit
they are good: close together and tight.
My coat is beautiful: bright blue velour
on the outside, thick, warm lambskin
facing inward, the back roomy enough
to carry my baby. All through the dark,
windy winter, we sew.
I develop calluses, transforming
calfskin in mukluks ,
wolverine into ruffs,
wolf heads into mittens.