Idol

Down in the pine needles in the snowstorm-stogged ravine an Evenki idol stands fixing his eyes on the taiga. Aggressively squinting, he watched until the time came when Evenki women started hauling presents to him. They brought him mukluks and parkas, they brought him honey and fur, figuring that he’d pray but mainly think for them all. In the dark assurance that he’d understand, they’d smear his mouth with warm deer blood. But what could he do, the phony little god, with his fierce, wooden whittled-down soul? Now he’s looking through the branches, abandoned and dead. No one believes in him; no one prays to him. Did I just dream this up? At night in his ravine, far off yonder, he sets his eyes on fire, overgrown with moss, And listening to the snowstorm blast down, licks his lips. Lord, I know it. He wants blood. Translated by James Dickey with Anthony Kahn