Nídhögg rises with the red light

stretching her feathers and climbing

the air with her wings

​

away from her bower 

beneath the World Tree 

 

        where she hoards corpses 

        instead of gold

 

        where she curls her 

        sinuous body around the roots 

        and squeezes tight

 

        (where she’d very much like 

        to bite Ratatosk that infernal squirrel

        in half)

 

She tastes the air 

with her tongue

finding the notes of sulphur 

and ash of Ragnarök

the coming storm 

and destruction

and holds them in her mouth

 

She grins and swings 

back to her bed

 

There will be more 

corpses to consume 

soon enough