i.
Nine days I hung from the
boughs of great Yggdrasil;
limbs wrapped tightly ’round
my neck – a choked and dry
tongue scraping across lips
as I tried to speak with the taste
of ash and leaves in my mouth, as
I prayed to Odin, as the branches
clawed at taut skin and a swollen belly.

But the runes were silent.

Pale light and her face is not her face,
a mask, creased, painted cheeks, indifferent.
Her mouth rakes over sound like garden pebbles.

While tiny boxes of cereal and the Danish
under glass with tiny black tongs sit,
I drink the coffee air of the official morning
with pink Sweet and Low and blue Equal
sugar packets leaving a few crumbs on the table.

Crowds scream in horror outside. Car horns and whistles waft in through the window behind the warm air. He slowly shuffles down the last couple stairs toward the vending machine and drops the coins in. Ca-chunk! His shoulder is still sore from earlier but he pulls out the Coke and pops the top off. 

in my face—like a child catapulting his potatoes
off his fork. Why have you digressed in this life?
Can you not see past what lies on your plate?
There is so much more than carrots and potatoes

There is no sweetest night of moon
If the playground is without your presence
There is no beautiful morning at all
If the rising sun is not your face