I get the appeal of Vikings—
wayward, loud, non-conformists,
cement walls of determination.
There’s little plan or purpose
in the margins of a marauder’s life.
Vikings don’t carve to-do lists,
intuition isn’t fancied up with feelings,
memory something to learn from or discard.
I’d do well in a pack,
where sex is an act, not a conversation.
I’m drawn to a past where women were revered,
and “Viking” a feminine noun.
I envy a time with simple rules:
horned helmet or bare head,
fuck or not,
kill or die.