“Eddas in the Kitchen”
by Marion Deal
Sing the lays of old
slip an edda or two beneath
the tongue to
dissolve (the body of seared hero)
One for the bat-folk
who use the storm to light their ribs
(this is what they call a friend)
One for those who trip through
tongues that are not
theirs
(Poland is the motherland in
this house)
One for fish who click their
fins in butter
(and swim silent circuits
to subterranean circuses)
One for comrades who slot into
the holes in your knuckles
(one, two, three, four, five)
who know what it is to bleed with steel
and who will not slip away at
midnight
“Sunday” by Armen Alex