Snorri, son of Karlsefni, first European born of this place: “Who
gets to give the names, Dad?”
His prized Viking father cycles through the logic of publicity,
the principal of spiritual geographies.
His uplifting eyes glass
with the infallibility of the illuminati:
“The nomothete is a calling of distinction,
a trust between all ancestors’ legacies and familial duty.
Your grandfather’s plush sails, the first to salute, sing the new
world, is one fact that must be remembered.
This acclaim is a judicial vassal, a classical cup puddling.”
By the custom of imperialism, the convention of colonisation, the
continent ought to be named Erica.