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Courtesy of Others ~
If the gods let me come
visit with them instead
of just speak: Me with
thoughts, them with signs,
I would drink mead with Freya.
She’d give me an armor plated
bodice like hers. Showing cleavage
we are ready for anything.
We’d go for a ride in her cat-drawn
chariot, throw rocks at people driving
who have stupid bumper stickers,
let them shake their fists.
We hit the bars, leaving the chariot
in the parking lot. We’d drink
beer from horns. Laugh, tell
rude stories, pick up men.
When we finished with them
we’d toss them to the Valkryies
let them sort out our mess.
We’d continue our festival.
Sing loud drinking songs on the lawns
of big box homes in rich neighborhoods.
The cats chase a person who complains.
Plant yucca in the bluegrass, thistle, too.
In the middle of town, we dance naked
in an ornamental fountain. Homeless
war veterans cheer. They tell Freya
their stories, images flashing across
their eyes. Lost warriors pet Freya’s cats,
feed them scraps of day-old pizza
saved for a special occasion
such as this. The cats purr in
and out, same as Mountain Lions.
We lay on our backs watching
the sky, waiting for a sign
from the gods. Same as always.
© Karen Emanuelson
"Brynhilde", © Carlshamns Commersen (www.commersen.se)
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