Thor, the Norse God of Thunder, had a hammer named Mjölnir. Mjölnir was considered a fierce weapon that could level mountains and summon lightning with every blow. In this poetry blog, every Thursday, (Thor’s Day), Mjölnir will forge only song - sing of the mysteries and beauties of the world.

Thursday, May 31, 2012


I had my suspicions when the Humvee
muscled me off the on-ramp
and when the bald maitre d’
sat the blonde before me
even though I arrived first.
And then again just yesterday
when my passive-aggressive boss took credit 
for the client I had landed.
But this morning was when I knew
once and for all:
that the whole kit n’ kaboodle
the nine yards
the can of worms
the kettle of fish
the ball of wax
the deck
and the great shebang itself
were rigged
from the git-go.

I knew this when my love,
whom I call Schmuggie,
confessed that the wish she had made
on the wishbone we just played tug-of-war with
was a wish for herself only and not us
and that - and this is the part 
she really felt bad about -
that when she handed me the bone
she knew she’d win - which she did - because
she gave me the brittle end and took
the stronger, sturdier half for herself.
I couldn’t help it, you understand, don’t you?
she said by way of an apology.

Yes, I understand, Schmuggie.
I really do!

Because, despite my own doubt
and my refined sense of cynicism,
I know that the human heart
is a complicated instrument 
prone to its own flights of fancy
like a bird
whose bones protect it
from the power of its own wings –
or in our case, Schmuggie, love
and trust - and too little
wishful thinking.

1 comment:

  1. i'm imagining a heart breaking to the sound of that wish bone-