Poem by the Norwegian writer Gro Dahle

I carve my daughter

I carve my daughter out of sallow. Whittle a flute

from her fingers. When I blow on her, I hear

how beautifully she cries.

I dress myself with my child. A coat of mail. Armour. A

daughter shield. Hold her in front of me on my lap.

My lap is a throne. The people are jubilant.