Styrmir's Mother.

Hot-pot feet
in the field of the glacier;
dirty ankles
and their gelid erasure

under the mountain
that spits down spare clothes
tumbling into the
lopapeysa she sewed

and in between stitches
of grey-and-white lines
clumps of his hair
get caught in the design

and his feet touch the surface
of the bath on the summit
glaciers crack through the steam
I'm under. I plummet.

He stands on the water,
my wool jacket unravels
we are 8 hours away
from the start of our travels

there is moss on the mountain
and spare flesh in the hot spring
she sewed me a sweater,
the one he is taking.