Brísingamen

My fire at your clavicle—I balance
above milk.

I was broad and fair—longingly
I looped my maiden’s neck.

Men wrote me off as worn
stones—stripped me of my name.

A vast leg of amber—lost
to time’s cold reduction.

****

He wanted me—borrowed.
Never. Blue—bruised.

The great ash hall hid
under loving wings.

The sea beasts swelled, gnashed
their teeth—roughly against my metal.

The snake who ingested his own
tail—encircled. Lengthened.

Though well-hooked, he lost me
to grey depths.

The beast who focuses his gnash on himself
loses all sustenance.

 

“dead snake head”by bschmitt99 is licensed under CC PDM 1.0

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