A crow caws

From the skeletal branches

Of the dying tree before me.

It jutts out,

Spear-like,

From the rocky waste

Where I lie broken.

 

A squirrel scampers up and down

Its rotten trunk,

And in my fog

I think he is

Ratatoskr,

Carrying insults

Between the eagle

And the serpent.

 

I try to shout at him,

Tell him to stop,

But my mouth is dust–

Gritty,

And tasting of chalk.

All that comes out

Is a sputter.

 

The world spins.

I heave and retch

From the coppery scent

Of coagulation

Filling my nostrils.

 

Fevered,

I look to the tree,

Searching for Hangi,

But there is just a dying tree,

And no secrets,

This time,

To pull from the well.

 

3-19-19