[anui: Inuit for packed snow]

there came a time
when peeing outside the tent

— out of sight of the giggling young
Inuit women who would play
with anyone emerging
from the poker game
and freeing his dink
from our bulky winter gear
in the privacy of
around the corner of the tent,
so she could see what
all the mystery was about —

the time came when
that was not enough:
we had to end the constipation
and face number two
or the consequences of
Murphy’s ninetieth law:
if you eat, you crap.
The only place
they would let us crap
was an igloo
constructed at the edge
of camp by the Inuit
as an elaborate joke, I am sure.

An igloo is made of packed snow
chunks carved out of the aniu,
curved quickly and laid in a spiral
until it forms a well-insulated
sheltered small dome.
Entrance is achieved by means
of crawling through a short tunnel
with a right-angled wall
you must first navigate
before accessing the tunnel.

It is here you realize two things:
light travels through snow
and refridgeration does not
necessarily kill
the smell of poop.
Consider also that
when you crawl
into this glowing haven of poo
you enter the inner sanctum
face-first face-down
before you turn and squat
then unbuckle unzip
and present bum
to the cold
on a very slippery slope.
In retrospect
this was my introduction
to the Inuit sense of humour.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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