Skimt's Marrow

Far between the folded peaks,
there lies a narrow vale.
The moon hangs vast above the frost,
and all the trees stand pale.

The ling lies thick on lower ground,
with berries red and blue.
No snow has fallen in that cold,
yet frost has bitten through.

A low outcrop of broken stone
lifts from the waiting lea.
Upon its crown, against the moon,
there burns one crimson tree.

Red vines run dark about its roots,
not thick enough to hide.
They spill in broken, blood-dried threads
and stain the old stone side.

Then the girl steps on the frost;
her breath lifts thin and bare.
One word lies locked within her breast,
too dear for oath to swear.

From pine-dark comes her Wardr forth,
a woman, pale and slight.
Her white gown slips past age-dark steel
and gathers up the light.

Her wolf-bent legs move sure and low,
soft paws press into loam.
She walks as one who crossed no gate,
but was already home.

A silver mane falls down her back,
her still eyes hold their mark.
No softness asks within her face,
she straightens in the dark.

“Again you come to me,” she says,
“though tongue lies still as stone.”
“What would you hear?” the girl replies,
“that I must make need known?”

The old speech coils through frost and dark,
too close, too long ago.
The Wardr leans with narrowed eyes:
“Do you not do so?”

“I am not your Fylgja, child,”
her answer falling low.
Her dark eyes hold the girl in place,
where no turned lie may go.

Then silence rests between them both,
like snow that has not weighed.
“What cradles life?” the Wardr asks,
with neither need nor blade.

The girl’s hand shifts beside her hilt;
she does not draw or flee.
“I will not do the riddles now.”
“What cradles life?” calls she.

“A mother’s blood,” the girl replies,
beneath the moon’s white stare.
She speaks as if the answer asks
no price but passing air.

The answer scarcely leaves her lips
before the Wardr: “No.”
Then winter rises through the vale
and bends the dark pines low.

No spell is shaped, no hand is raised,
no seidr gives it sign.
It bends the trees and stirs the frost
and shakes the blood-red vine.

The Wardr draws her sword and seax
in one clean, ringing slide.
She lets them hang, not raised to strike;
her stance is deep and wide.

“You seek a life you will not name,
yet cast its thread aside.
No blood can cradle what the tongue
refuses yet to guide.”

No crouch, no threat, no pride was there,
no warning and no fret.
She lowered, leaned, and waited there,
as though his name a debt.

Once, I nearly crossed that line,
twice, I nearly slept.
Three times, my mind was torn apart,
I carried on — and kept.

For years I feared the papered walls,
where hidden monsters bite.
For longer, I kept all walls bare,
and painted over white.

Now ghosts look down from wooden frames,
old faces caught in light.
And oil-dark sirens haunt the walls,
too beautiful to fight.

The bed I bought, I cannot use,
I rest where I belong.
When night creeps in, the dead come too,
and keep me up till dawn.

I miss her in the quiet rooms,
but miss you even more.
The walls keep every wound I framed,
the couch is keeping score.

She walks the streets at twenty-five,
with hollow eyes that never age.
She asks again, then asks once more:
“Do you have some change?”

Fifteen, and holding all I had—
a few small coins I could not spend.
Police laughed as she went still.
Why did I give it in the end?

I wish that I could hold her close
and tell her she is not alone;
be strong enough to not let go—
could I have been her home?

Why can I not be more for her?
Why can I not undo the pain?
Why do I keep her in my heart
and lose her every day again?

But now I know her need for sleep:
why love could never reach my soul.
I saw in her my first safe home,
and needed her to make me whole.

Hot and cold beneath the duvet,
the wallpaper comes alive:
faces, skulls, and little beasts,
the Rorschach of the mind.

Once, twice, and I don’t flinch
at any ordinary wall.
Three times, four, I learn to yearn
for teeth inside them all.

Five, six, and I reach out
to give the lamp a flaw.
My fingers make a spider there,
to crawl through what I saw.

Now I sleep with both eyes closed;
no creature comes to feed.
I am not chased by shadows now—
I teach them how to need.

Then she climbs down from the wall,
with all her legs set free,
creeping close to tuck me in
and eat me where I sleep.

The light goes out, and time rewinds.
I’m on the couch, not in your room.
With eyes shut tight, I ask for dreams
and wait to hear those words from you.

Then from the plane I step,
and find them waiting there.
We walk awhile to where she waits:
green eyes and raven hair.

Piercings, ink, and quiet stare,
too sharp to look straight through.
In what way will you hurt me?
How beautiful are you?

The car ride home: you chew your gum
while hearts I draw on glass.
You blow a million bubbles up
and let the moments pass.

You tie your shoes on the stairs.
I’m shy in the living room,
but you see me and tilt your head:
“So, are you coming too?”

Barbecues and waterparks,
cinemas and rented films,
candy, games, and midnight talks—
who are you beneath the stills?

You had seen it all before I did:
how pain in me grew worse.
And tighter still, you held me close,
though I was a curse.

“Not on the couch just like some dog—
you’ll sleep in bed with me,” you said.
That warmth, that smell, that open door
still lives inside my head.

I wish not sleep, but crave the dream,
and sometimes bend it cruel,
where you hurt, discard, and use me,
and love me like they do.