Letter in Icelandic from the Ninette San

You'll recall from the sagas, I hope, Grettir's last stand at Drangey
How his grip on his sword made his enemies cut off his hand
If he'd fled here instead and had tasted this terrible coffee
Or read these letters you sent, he'd surrender and lay the blade down

And it's Halloween
Skinny ghosts dress like cowboys and rest
At the railing by my door
On their way from the children's ward

Bev Monro and his Pembina Valley Boys play at the party
And I practice my English on nurses: "Oh, that's a nice name"
And they may ask for mine, but the burns on my back from the x-rays say I shouldn't show anyone anything ever again

In another year
I'll be buried or shivering here
Coughing at that gray spittoon
Painted orange by the harvest moon

Pack up mother's clothes
Drive her down to the new Betel Home
Sell the boat to Arnason, and then go

Stand up straight
In the place you're longing for
And don't write to me anymore