I wrote this poem a long time ago, back when my husband John and I had a house in Fort Hill, a suburb of Charleston, West Virginia. In order to placate me when he wanted to go shopping (I hate shopping), he’d bribe me with visits to the Krispy Kreme in South Charleston. Then one night we watched a film in which I found Mortensen especially fetching. (I have a huge crush on him as Aragorn in The Lord of the Rings, a character I both relate to and desire.) Futile lust, as it so often does with me, inspired this poem.
On a less horned-up note, I’ve read interviews with Mortensen, and he sounds like the kind of down-to-earth man I’d enjoy having a few beers with. And I have Aragorn’s ranger sword and elven hunting knife mounted on the walls in my home in Pulaski, VA. The latter weapon plays a part in my essay “Southern (LGBT) Living,” which was included in the anthology Crooked Letter i: Coming Out in the South, and in my second essay collection, Binding the God: Ursine Essays from the Mountain South.