Ragnarock

Ragnarock

The old story holds the key to the problem:
The dent in the concrete wall, where my great-grandfather’s fist
missed my grandfather’s head, and didn’t finish the job.
His hand made a hole and let in the shadows,
all of us, every generation, have stood facing that fist. Some of us duck
Some don’t.
I ran and got there early, half a minute
before the shadows under the pines, in empty eye sockets—
He ran for his life into the six-month night,
swallowed by the shadow
until he followed the fjords down back to us—
well-up in him and draw out the shadows who live in the wall.
Hey now, Vassily Frostivich, screaming shoah in your soul
you don’t hear the quiet click of the shackles,
under the gas-lamp, everbright--
Hey, Mr. “Frost”, tell me now if you can still raise your arm