The Changeling

after an Icelandic folktale in which an elf child
is exchanged for a human one

Loftur. His name means air,
and my cries
wend up to him, 
floating
on the currents 
of afterbirth, the veil

of second sight
still wrapped around his head. 
You mean wind. 
Husband, I know what I named him. 
He witnessed his own birth; 
it caught his breath

like a raven swooping to catch a berry 
as it drops from the bush. 
When a cold front moved off sea, 
to the ring of mountains-- 
everything gave way to stillness 
I could not escape.

His first impulse was flight 
out from under this lid 
toward another vision, 
but was he blind to the one we have?
You mean storm, brewing around us, 
had he waited to ride it out?

I mean this child left to me, without cowl, 
breath gone from him, 
no cry issued, 
nothing for me to nurture. 
By now he's back there, 
knew where to go--

his hand extended to grasp 
the forerunner's, and when they touch, 
all the dark feathered beings will rivet 
the air with their calls and I'll 
shudder through root and stone. 
You mean rain

will come soon. 
This time, I will follow. 
They are brothers now 
someone else must raise.