Mimir
by Elizabeth Vongvisith
The water of the Well are always rippling
and on their surface, you can see the sun,
a candle to light the dimness down there
where he dwells, living on after death, in
simmering rage cloaked as resignation.
I wonder if Mimir dreams, floating
in his fluid jailhouse, his abbatoir where
the heads of the unlucky keep him company?
I am at least wise enough not to ask.
For then I might see a slow train of bubbles
rising to the surface, conveyor-belt regular
as the heads shifted around to face me,
as Mimir opened his sleep-drained eyes,
piercing the water and the air between us
until I either run screaming from that place,
or wait, frozen on my feet, for the old one
to speak the things I would rather not hear.
If I sang across the gently moving waters,
would my song carry down to his ears
as well as the inevitable questions do?
And if I dared bend toward the surface,
touching my mouth briefly to the chill water,
would he feel the warmth of my lips on his face
just before madness broke my brain in two
and drew me too early to Helheim’s border?
If his sleep does permit it, perhaps
Mimir dreams of stark nothingness
in the silence and the depth of the Well,
an occasional blackout of sense
cradling him painlessly there in between
interruptions by the curious and the ruthless;
for now, until the end of the world,
he may draw only so close to release
and no further.