from “Cruel Loss of Sons”

Translated from the Old Norse by Emily Osborne My tongue is slackwith sky-weight,too slow to movepoem-beams.It’s hard now,from mind’s haven,to drag the swagOdin swindled. My family standsat its end, stopsstorm-thrashedon a forest’s fringe.No man is hale whohefts his kinsman’s jointsoff his ground-sprawl,carries his corpse. First, still,father-deathI must speak ofand mother-loss.Lug praise-lumberout of word-templethen leaf itwith language. Brutal was that breachbroken openby the wave in myfather’s kin-wall.My son’s cleft goes ongaping, deserted.I see it—what the sea spawned. If I sewed up thatcrime with my sword,wasted I’d leave thewave-smith forever.I’d brawl withthe wind’s brother.I’d scuffle withthe sea-god’s girl. The sea has robbedme richly.It stings to speakof my kinsmen’s death,since the shieldof my family slippedaway from life,left the mind’s paths. In my son swelledthe promise ofa mighty thane.I know this in myself.If only…