Propped on a pillow,
sprained and swollen, I press
an ice-filled Ziploc to my ankle,

wrap the bag in a tea towel.
My Swedish host insists;
ice might burn my skin,

laid up in a guest room
binge-watching a remake
of War and Peace.

A picture of their lost son
—poster-size—overlooks
my sickbed.

I’m here to translate poems
about him,
but I cannot move.

This mini-series finds
scant comfort in fate.
Even gods must obey

what’s drawn from Urd’s well,
one of three Norns
spinning life’s length.

My host’s son died in a tsunami.
His wife survived.
I’m reluctant to ask for help,

but after learning to wrap a bandage,
I worry about lost time,
I start to heal.