John K. Samson Letter In Icelandic From The Ninette San
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.
