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Letter in Icelandic from the Ninette San

You'll recall from the sagas I hope Grettir's last stand at Drangey

How his grip on the sword made his enemies cut off his hand

If he'd fled here instead, and had tasted this terrible coffee

Or read these letters you sent he'd surrender, and lay the blade downAnd it's Halloween

Skinny ghosts dress like cowboys and rest at the railing by my door

On their way from the children's wardBev Monroe and his Pembina Valley boys play at the party

And I practice my English on nurses, "Oh, that's a nice name."

And they may ask for mine, but the burns on my back from the x-rays

Say I shouldn't show anyone anything ever againIn another year

I'll be buried or shivering here.

Coughing at the grey spittoon

Painted orange by the harvest moon

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