norroway in february
For surefooted step, hooves behoove the haver.
The sky redid blue, the woman wavered,
and the black bull (the vanquisher), vanished.
She called out to nothing, and in vain shed
tears until she reached the glass hill’s impasse.
Served her standard fairy tale penance, passim,
served her seven to be given iron
shoes to—at last—scale the hill, the earned
neared end. Each step conquered territory,
at last, the sleeping prince-once-bull, torrid tearing
of clothes, tearing on one’s clothes, three nights of this
until the prince awakes. How she, exhausted,
must have felt in the at long last, the ever after.
Happily, I guess, but a long time until laughter.