for Caitlyn Paxson and Jessica P. Wick
North of the Trent, they say,
we give our eyes to ravens.
Where they fly, so do our looks,
and their hunger is our hunger,
and we feast on slain knights,
their would-be brides
with their bellies full of children.
Is this a knife I see before me?
North of the Trent, they say,
we are a hard and hardened lot;
we cut stone with our teeth.
Our women thread needles
with nettles, sew us shirts,
and we never feel the itch.
Is this a knife I see before me?
North of the Trent, they say,
we break bodies into instruments,
bend breastbones into harps – and know
that harps are never strung with hair,
but scraped and scoured gut.
Is this a knife I see before me?
Who can say? Who, but you,
blithe river-forder, seeking adventure,
seeking giants to cut down like ripe bean stalks,
with your weak and whimpering wit?
Stories drew you—a desire
to draw yourself in story. Well.
North of the Trent, I say,
we are known for hospitality. Let us see
if we may not yet find you a place
among the beaks of our ravens,
the roots of our nettles,
the frames of our sturdy harps.
