Freyja in Brooklyn
I misplaced my chthonic majesty and lost my feathered cloak
in the last move. All I have left is this reindeer skull diadem
with antlers, all out of context. People mistake me for mere shaman
or Pratt student. How to remember one's role in the weather--
bear down and bear down all winter until everyone's breaking
and broken, pale on the subway. Still, my sorcery's all jacked
up. I'll move clouds about until it comes back to me, turning
the wind this way and that, like an old-timey radio knob.
If Odin were here, he'd say, "Out-of-sorts goddess. That's no
way to go through life." Either way, I'll meet half of you
halfway down your long last road.