Thor Loses His Hammer

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He staggers into my home tear-drink,

gold locks reeking of booze and puke,

snot dangling from his perfect nose.

I ask, What happened?

 

It’s gone, he says, I can’t find it.

 

He sits, sinks into the cushions,

cries more than any god should.

Loki? I suggest, quick to help.

 

First place I tried—beat him to a pulp

then ransacked the underworld.

Hela told me to check with the frost giants.

No luck there, either.

 

As he speaks he voice shakes

with so much loss I ache for him—

helplessly, like having to see a child

break, bawling over a popped balloon.

 

I brew us coffee.

He takes his mug in his large god hands,

thanks me and asks what he should do.

 

Can’t the dwarves just make another?

 

He says I don’t understand.

Tells me it was a gift from Odin—

the only hard proof of his father’s love.

 

But I do—years before my father left,

he gave me a watch I’d never wear,

but made promise to always keep.

Now it rests in a sleek black box,

tucked away in my bedside drawer.

 

Often I forget it’s there, except

on nights I can’t sleep when I hear

its faint ticking, and think to take it

from its grave, to feel the weight

of my father’s heart in my palm.

 

I want to tell Thor I understand,

but he has passed out on my couch,

curled into a muscular ball, snoring—

and I wonder,

 

if Thor cannot find his hammer,

how long before we feel his loss,

how long before we miss the thunder

from our skies.