After Loki I was the first to borrow Freyja’s cloak of falcon feathers. I flew to you. Flew across centuries and oceans. I could not bear the separation and so, not finding you quickly enough, I consulted the Thrice Burnt Thrice Born, the she-witch Gullvieg. She spoke:
“I am sorry but there is nothing I can say that would not
perchance dismantle, denude, destroy the careful
contrivance you call “your life.” And so,
I laid down on pine bow bed, wildflower, arch of bones,
Viking feast in the halls of Folkvangr. I practiced the s
magic of the old Norse: dwarves painted on the sides of barn timbers,
the deep pull of ancient wells,
the sorcery of touch wood,
Due to my being a man, she would not at first see me. But she was Freyja’s sister and so I told her it was of you. I knew she would understand the backward way of love; I told her you are my household. I told her that without you I have no poetry. She laughed like lunacy. “Love’s unknowings outweigh human contrivances,” she whispered.
She burnt plants: henbane, mushroom, pine sap.
She unmade man-ness, took away gendering.
She went to her loom, loosened a knot in the woof,
the ways in which you were hidden were undone.
She tied a knot, the enemy was bound.
She made me a finder of futures and pasts.
That unsane sister tied the words ‘yours’ ‘mine’ to colored thread and wove them into the community of messengers – the bird headed females called envoys of sagas. Then and there I unbecame and became again. Now, unlike that odd species called “men,” I am not endangered (or engendered) by womanly freedoms….
Now when I die I will go with the half who journey to Freyja; let the men who only know battle go to Odin. - t.k.
t.k., tsogyelgar, traktung khepa