The Fall of Boreas: god of the cold north wind and bringer of winter

Iceland is no longer

mosquito-free. When it comes

to global problems, this is hardly

breaking news.

Maybe that’s why I found it

while perusing phys.org—

though how it pertains

to physics I do not know.

What I do know is

no one loves mosquitos but the

frogs. And spiders. And maybe the

odd lizard here & there.

I can’t imagine Iceland having

frogs—their croaks

from some volcano

keeping me up at night. But of course,

arachnids must be everywhere—

like the rat & kitchen roach.

How else do you know your

novel’s gone unread? By what

other means can you tell

that no one’s here—than a cobwebbed

couch and shelf? That your poems

have gone untouched in 30 years?

Or maybe it has little

to do with dusting or

a lack thereof. Perhaps the spiders

are not as vapid as we thought—

calling dibs on the Dostoevsky

you’ll fail to get to

one of these days.

Or perchance they’re sophistiqué—

uncorking Chablis on the sofa

while they listen to Sigur Rós.

Maybe we need them now

more than ever—

while we trudge through Reykjavík,

eager to jaunt to the hot springs

of which the locals boast;

cringing from all the whirring

in our ears—this vampiric

frequency,

knowing that any second they

will prick us for our blood in

tender places,

lapping it up like wine;

these interlopers

from the swamp,

who once feasted on

Tyrannosaurus;

Pinocchio-nosed

potentates of the air;

that now we’ve lost

our only rationale—for settling

so far up north—

stung to the very marrow,

by the god of gale & snow;

his deal with a droning devil

he made an oath

to shield us from.                                                                

Andreas Gripp

April 19, 2026

Mike Bierek