Whales sing for the Viking queen –
she’s hard and cruel and cold.
Dual-headed dragon boat,
twenty oars as long as oaks,
pulled by forty weary men.
Eighty cracked and calloused hands
pull. And pull. And pull again.
The moon a scythe, shreds the clouds,
opens up a map of stars.
She tilts her face up, fox fur-fringed,
breathes in, tastes the wind,
and with a flutter of her fingers
signals to the oarsmen.
Her eyes green as glaciers breaking,
just as hard and cold.
The men no longer warm in bear skins,
ice forms on their braided beards.
They strain and suffer her command.
Yet with a single sideways glance,
they could easily drop the oars,
rise and throw her overboard.
They think that they would like to see her
in the glow of moon and starlight
as a speck of jetsam, bobbing,
while the chill of white-fringed waves
soaks her clothes, pulls her under.
And yet. She knows where whales swim.
Guides the boat past icebergs rising
higher than the painted sail.
Sees beyond the vast horizon,
steely ocean touching sky.
And so. Although she’s cruel and cold,
she reads the stars. She knows the way.
The Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Volume 3