Lofoten Poem

Strange Fruit

Key limes drop into the Arctic
fisherman’s palm, salty cod bodies
dry south-facing on poles
while gooseberries common as mangoes
ripen in a Northern garden.

Poets’ tongues are pens
tonight, as silence floods the rorbu
the way sea-fog rolls in
with no warning. Arguments evaporate
over beer and reindeer
balls! we say, to everything!
and Here’s to us.