Writings

A poem on the artwork: Nøkken som hvit hest (1907) by Theodor Kittelsen (1857–1914)

The Witch (c. 1500) by Albrecht Dürer. She didn’t want your name. She wanted the heat in your chest, the one that burns when you lie to your wife about where you were and why your hands are shaking. Meet her at the crossroads where the road to the church meets the road to the cemetery. Don’t bring flowers. Bring the debt you’re hiding in your pocket. She’s older than the dirt, you know this. Her skin is the color of wet ash, her eyes are the green of pond water where things

The dead girl sits on the stairs with mud between her toes. There are no stairs. She asks why the kitchen is gone. I tell her they drowned the village. She looks past me to the old woman at the fence, white hair pinned at the nape, one hand shaking above her cane. Who is that? Your sister. She frowns. Ruth is six. At the fence, my grandmother is crying so hard she has forgotten to wave.