A Norseman would toss
a thick-tipped spear
over the bloodgrass battlefield, over
the splayed and spreadeagled,
the blooming wounds,
and shout out a dedication
of the gore to the god of
his choice. This
single act saved him, the
god, from being forgotten
and endeared the
wide-wristed warrior
to the divine, a sacred pact.
And should I wrap my fingers
around my turgid shaft, spray
an arc, a white rainbow, over your
face in a photograph on my floor,
moan your name and
dedicate my little death
to you, girl
would you love me any more?
(2005)
