Blótsteinn Hólar in Hjaltadalur, Iceland
The cell phone fails and the air thins. Messages from friends can wait.
The farm we found has become a fortress with blood stone, where enemies’
backs were broken, the first rule of the difference of men.
Europeans called them mud people, bones the same as elsewhere
protruding from the bog. Carried out of Ireland and carried off by workers
doing renovations in ’55, the stone perhaps mistaken for a table.
Now there’s a lovely hollow where history has fallen in.
What’s to write when the head is exposed without a helmet,
the heart bared without a breastplate, and the back still straight as a knife edge?
There are substances that cannot mix like blood and stone, like history and land,
and when the phone rings, the faces ask about the weather.