The Soumi birthed me.
Reindeer enamel and varnished driftwood,
Scum and fat, sown into sun,
A handle spun for hands the makers have never known.
For those who brave the North,
Bathe my light and leave ghosts in your wake –
Come! Enter my kingdom of Ice and
Receive me, still-warm and crumpled,
Postcard of a thing.
One must know of my importance,
The engraved fractals jaded on my breast.
The image of a great thing is great indeed.
I live on, as a handle for a sword or a plow
For the thing is lost; the toiled memory
falling far beyond
The trembling sleight of hand.