BOYUK

Old Boyuk sits in his pickup truck,

Day after day, and watches me work.

He always parks his faded red Ford,

Fittingly seamy and lusterless

Like all things exposed to Arctic seasons,

In the way of machines I need to move quickly,

In the worst of all places,

From my point of view.

But one does not ask him to move.

It just isn't done.

Once, a long time ago, people tell me --

As if it explained everything --

The winter was hard in Kotzebue Sound,

Where the People lived from hand to mouth,

Slaves to fickle seasons,

To runs of suicidal salmon,

Which spawn in frenzy, and die,

To migrations of caribou,

Which themselves move

At the mercy of wolves;

Where humans hung onto life each day

With tenuous grip,

Subject to depth of snow

And thickness of pack ice.

Once, a long time ago, people tell me,

The winter was hard in Kotzebue Sound

And the fish and caribou did not come.

Young Boyuk, with rifle, dogs and sled,

Followed the frozen Noatak, alone,

Toward its mountain source.

When he returned after many days

From the lowlands of the Brooks Range,

His sled was full of caribou

And he fed the starving villagers.

Now the People's lives

Do not depend on fish and caribou,

But on Native Land-claim checks

And speculators such as I,

Who bring in cash to buy the trucks and alcohol.

Still Boyuk carries the name

Of the one who saved his village

Once, a long time ago,

When the winter was hard.

It is said, in prideful public whispers,

That he deals in dope and bootleg booze;

But the People's memories are long,

So one does not ask Old Boyuk

To move his faded red pickup.

He saved his village once,

A long time ago,

When the winter was hard.