A kut is a shaman ritual.
No sickness, no worries; she rarely bathes.
Ten years on, she’s still wearing the clothes she was married in.
She gives the blanketed baby the breast—it’s an excuse for a nap;
she lifts her skirt to catch the lice—she’s off to the sunny spot under the eaves.
Her every move in the kitchen smashes a dish.
A glance at the loom by the wall makes her scratch her head in distress.
Yet word of a kut in a neighbor’s house
has her gone in a flash, brushwood gate off the latch.