Grindivak, Iceland
June days that never night,
we bike at midnight through
sun and wind to the harbor,
walk with care across shiny
basalt rocks to the salting
station, carry the slit cod
stacked like fine, cotton aprons
to the largest stones, bend to
flatten their salty, sopping
flesh to dry in sunshine.
I story my sister about
Ràn, our goddess planting
whales into water, providing
salty beneficence. When we
rest, Anna opens her purse,
pours krónur into her palm
saying: “Fish is work, Asta,
only that.” Not for me.
When wind’s up, I pretend
I might sail the heavy triangles
I hold to Norway, or fly them
high, like white kites. My sister
shivers when wet needles prick
our faces. I say, “Your cod seems
a folded umbrella. Open
it! Fish are slippery—
an entire universe.”
