Folkvangr

Though you didn't fall

in battle, you buried yourself in

the movements of warriors,

etched across the plains

of Europe. Bowed down before

the penumbra of a Viking

pyre -in some time passed,

before your own. You

constructed hard-backed keeps;

tiny villages poised on the

borders of ingot, of childish artistry,

and a man-child you remained.

Like us all, small feathers

moving gently into a room

we never asked to be

invited into, into a world of

icy bays and fiery moors. A world

where you looked ahead,

most of all, to the day

you would pass from it. Pass

into a rocky monument

where you could float

above amaranth and milkweed,

grown-up to cover the pile

of your rubble stretching

seven feet, taller- and

surrounded by nothing,

but a clear Icelandic

troposphere. Here, you would

set yourself on fire,

find the way to what

looked like Freyja's field -hoping

someone would hear

the crackling of plastered bones

and sail your embers

back home.

Author's Note

2014