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Hafvilla I


Wyndreth Berginsdottir            


I drift deep
over bones
sighing, restless
wave-clad, sea-spun
where none
now know
my name
but this scant
handful of birds.

Shadows pass
beneath
dark and large as
shipwrecks.
When the strakes creak
I do not look down.
I do not look down.

The sun sails,
changes places
with the moon
while stars ease
ever into shapes
I cannot read.
The sky
one dark sea
The sea
one rough sky
and I drift
between,
my dull eyes
full of salt.

My grandmothers
are singing
cold songs among
the weeds,
songs that spread
in circles. “Child,”
they sing, “Beware.
Your blood is
full of brine,
your ship
rides low
and your bones,
your bones,
they will
not float
for long.”

© 2/29/2008 karen kahan




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