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The Shawoman     —Clara Hsu

Ashes of burnt sage
absentmindedly scattered.
Small pools of candle wax
imprinted the tablecloth.
Here and there,
a thread of red,
a white.
The underground had been severely sanctified.

Shawoman Ai-Churek of Tuva
rented the basement of my music shop
for her healing sessions.
The night before, Sasha the manager
and I put a futon and a pillow
in the room.

Ai-Churek came on Sunday morning
with her drum and suitcase.
She was a short, stout woman with
long black hair,
tiny callous hands and an impassive face.

She laid out her robe of color,
brightly embroidered with long braided tassels
attached to the sleeves,
a headdress swept with eagle feathers,
incense, candles, herbs, water,
fabrics, bear claws, pieces of bones and stones.

When she beat her drum
she went into a trance.
Her voice became deep and divided.
Sometimes she sang like a man,
sometimes growled as an animal.
After an hour with her patient,
she went outside and puffed
a quiet smoke.

It was the second day
when I seek her advise.
As I descended into the room,
now dimly lit with candle light
I became a stranger in my own space.

She spoke without looking at me
while busily ripping pieces of red cloth
with her teeth,
tying bones into the braid,
dipped in tea, kissed,
and gave it to me as a gift.
She told me to feed the spirits,
for there were many floating
and dwelling within the instruments.

That night, in my sleep,
I saw a black butterfly
in full glory,
her wings rippled
in a crystalline sea.

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