You’ll recall from the sagas, I hope, Grettir’s last stand
at Drangey, how his grip on the sword made his enemies
cut off his hand? If he’d fled here instead and had tasted
this terrible coffee, or read these letters you send, he’d
surrender and lay the blade down. And it’s Halloween. Skinny
ghosts dress like cowboys and rest at the railing by my door,
on their way from the children’s ward. Bev Monroe and his
Pembina Valley Boys play at the party, and I’ll practice my
English on nurses, “Oh that’s a nice name,” and they may
ask for mine but the burns on my back from the x-rays say I
shouldn’t show anyone anything ever again. In another year
I’ll be buried, or shivering here, coughing at that grey
spitoon painted orange by the harvest moon. Pack up Mother’s
clothes, drive her down to the new Betel Home, sell the boat
to Arnason, and then go. Stand up straight in the place
you’re longing for, and don’t write to me anymore.
