when viking kings died, their boats came along
dragged up on land, the groaning of the planks
and the sighing of the flags echoing the widows,
sisters, daughters. the men remained stoic, let
nothing show and let nothing go, watching as
the hulking ship rolled along on the backs of
a hundred dutiful slaves. the pit had been dug
weeks earlier, a maw in the earth where
ship and sailor would be embedded together.
a viking without a ship would be a hunter
tracking at midnight without the moon, a woman
without modesty, a bird without flight. but
those great men who led with tight fists and
grim grey eyes were given the majesty of
their oceanic bird removed from its tidal wings.