In Viking sagas, language is
roundabout. A sword is a blood
worm; blood battle sweat. Is it this
that made me a poet? Around
my finger: a ring of Frejya’s tears bind
us. Your blood is also of Viking
descent. In Iceland we blend in
with the locals, drinking heavy
beers, eating fish stew, until they hear
us speak: Is this also where my gift
for circumlocution stems? You tell me
you love me and I describe all the ways
in which I would have made a good
conqueror. You don’t argue. We
look out over the glacial mountains
(stone teeth, ice trolls, snow knives)
and beneath, the lava (Earth’s blood,
Surtr’s misery, liquid flame) lies
in wait; there is always seismic
activity here, no matter how stable
or frozen the land appears.
