We are Vikings, my dear. Strong.
We hang our gods from trees.

I want to go there. To the western shore
and breathe in the snow-perfumed air.
Away from these streets. Where noir-clad
men trot along, pronouncing themselves the
holy ones. The only ones.

Sometimes, it feels like I'm climbing an
endless hill, a way to heaven. Upupup&up,
my tired arches are flattening out from the
incline. There has got to be a top to this
mountain. There's got to be an end.

But now and then I get the urge to crucify
a value, lynch a moral yoke that keeps me
from enjoying the arduous trek. They say
I confuse pleasure with survival, but what
does it matter? I need both just the same.

It's a man's world. They are our overlords,
dictating when to run and when to breathe
(you can exhale now dear)
Yet the Valkyries carry them
on their barges, taking the shortcut to paradise.

My soul wasn't created below. I'm
climbing, tearing my fingernails in the grime
for a taste. So scruples incinerate along the path.
I must travel light.

I survive. I will tear the flesh out of my thigh to
obtain my nourishment. It should count for something.

That's why we hang our gods, my dear.

05/13/2000

Author's Note: Italicized lines paraphrased from Janet Fitch's White Oleander. That book was also the inspiration for the poem.

Posted on 07/04/2007
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