Sigyn dreams of Loki
nine nights
running, fiery

cobalt eyes
scorching
his swift path

across the sky.
Loki, fair
of face, father

of lies and wolves
wrestles Angrboda
on a bed

inside her drunken
ogre father’s icy
cave.  They twist

in sweat and melted
pools on matted
fur nine nights in love

if you could call it that:
three for the serpent
sprung from their seed

to root in Angrboda’s womb,
three for their wolf
son, growing his jaws

in darkness, three for Hel‑‑
their daughter destined
to rule the dead.

Loki returns
to Sigyn with an ash
tree sprig.

Where she plants, forests
tear from the earth.
Everywhere, deer graze

at branches, in the tallest
crowns, eagles perch.
Up and down rough

trunks squirrels scurry,
carry messages
for worms.

Beneath twisting roots
where deep pools lie, fed
by springs and rain

Loki hides.  For nine days
running, Sigyn searches
in the hairy leaves.

Her cobalt
eyes scorch
his swift path.

Shameless, he feels
no
shame
no

shame,
no
shame.

[Steven Klepetar’s work has appeared widely and has received nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.  His chapbook Thirty-six Crows was published in 2010 by erbacce-press.]