The
Last Valkyrie
On
a houseboat in winter, on a day
without
tomorrows she remembers how it began,
with
the others, something elemental.
Gods
write no memoirs,
exhibiting
temperament, the way systems rollick,
or
expand, or fail— after the bleating and the blood
a
last thought, buffed charm never bettered or broken,
to
be found with the pottery
a
thousand years from this disappointment.
She
knows how it is, humans
looking
for pity and assistance.
She
recalls a cold morning, the hero’s face
as
she beckoned him forward,
his
blackened armour, and the way his body fat
spat
as it burnt.
No comments:
Post a Comment