In Nordic mythology Sleipnir is Odin’s steed, the foal of Loki and Svaðilfari
I am fastened to the skim-race of a sly night.
Shadows fall, tin pots clank, slab-roofs trill.
My eyelids stutter. A silhouette before me – equine-like,
up-folded wings, serrations of fine spine-feathers.
A shadow-foal, a rider with a ghost-drawn face, lines
ploughed by a brazen sun or a blistering frost.
There’s the fit-fickle thunder-hiss of a merciless wind: all clinker,
the slag of irradiated soil, metal shards, eyelets, pinions,
grease, the multifarious detritus of battle. Odin seeks his revenge.
I run from the ankle-snatch of tumbleweed. Weightless. Slipping
through a crack of light, I cross the threshold
in a screech, as if all nesting owls have been released.
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 