As I unload each shifting, fertile clod
upon her pale remains, their thudding sound
brings to mind the pounding of that sod
upon my mother’s final resting ground.
Mother Earth, obliging, falls apart
for me. I see, instead of her I bested,
that sweet, blonde thief who cut my mother’s heart,
the one whom—all my life—I have detested.
What were the odds, that I could shoot ahead
of her, this daughter of the Nordic gods?
This educated harlot once struck dread
within me—puzzlingly. What were the odds?
If I can leave the thrill of her foul mouth
filled with my Mother’s milk, I’ll migrate south …