Dark Wine Memory

In listless afternoons

She'd knit language, calm as a still water;

And like a smith, she'd hammer silver,

Bringing hopes to life in a glistening stream.

She'd foot the deck boards if our ship swayed,

Leaning for rope and sail,

While I envisioned a gaunt house in a valley,

Without deep-rooted claim to call war.

I could scarcely understand witchcraft—

That of her hands and heart:

Bold, luminous, efflorescent before our fire

With her cheek pressed like warm rain on my chest.

She found her nails just sharp enough

To break off a piece of her skjaldmær soul,

While I worshiped the dream forge, and loved her—

My hallowed—my raven-song labyrinth of dark wine.

And though now she holds another,

I sometimes stare through the handmade convexity

Of a rum lens,

And the rocking gait of my maiden ship,

Resting in melody and might,

Like her arms were once around me

As a womb of sun flare

In the sovereign twilight of a dying world.