2 December 2009 | Vol. 9, No. 4
Comes to me in the dream of Odin's eye
resting in smooth silt at the bottom of the Well of Wisdom.
She was one of three sisters, her head thrown
back in laughter. It was hard to look for very long.
Are there still coyotes roaming those fields? A name floats
in—white eyelet, a dress. An armful of daisies,
or the man slight as someone's daughter. And then, the word
soil itself… Or the first person to make fabric unfurl
from needles in knots. Just when you think there's calm
again she throws a stick through the bike's wheel.
I was never good enough. Dust devils, that's what
they're called, right? On the side of his barn: blood
red, yellow of cheddar, a blazing green like winter rye—
his Hex sign, painted "Chust for nice." Polish on the nails
makes her hands sweat. And again, Alessio's missing
fingers. Awake, I find one more small rabbit
to knit from a cotton skein, and Odin's
garden full bloom mid-winter.