No sooner did you turn the moon into
liquid
and pour it over me,
splashing like Odin’s silver coins
on my thighs, that your riches gave me
the hint.
You are Odin.
No crest fallen lies, no spiritual
disguise
just nine enchanted herbs
in your garden of cures.
You are the catalyst for each old
fashioned warlock
thirsting
and
each trickster witch
casting
while they spoon each other after
fucking.
“Did you feel that?” she asks,
“Did you hear me?” he answers,
as they pull their sticky thighs apart
like
pine honey on silver coins.
Her eyes black like Odin’s ravens, dance
like Odin’s swords before nestling to
sleep entangled like Odin’s wolves
guarding the dream peninsula.
Your seed threads my root
in spiritual botany while
my ash, birch and
willow lay bound
beneath our
