My Summer With the Norsemen

The Viking and I never spoke
the same language. He picked me up
off the shore of a sick green ocean,
took me to his mud-brick home
and pushed two straw pallets together,
smiled hopefully.

He believed that he had saved me
from wars and storm foam,
gray afternoons
spent fishing for skate egg sacs.

For ten weeks
I let him bring me salted meat
and white silk corsets,
speak to me in soft, guttural tones
when I smiled. On warm days
he would walk with me
through his village, gesture to the women
who were with child
by mates they could not understand,
make me presents
of wilted wild flowers
held out in his pale, meaty fist.

He had no horned helmet or longboat,
only a silver ear-spoon and a leather pouch
full of smooth, gray stones he cast into a circle
while I pretended to sleep.

As August ended and cold wind
blew in from the northern shore
I ran down to the ocean,
snail shells and rocks cutting my feet. 
I stood ankle-deep in the surf,
waited for the sea-gods to save me,
and the Viking filled his hut