The Living

“I have travelled.  Now I can be

the path, and you can

walk over me…”

—Peter Heller, “Malvine”

Not just any path, but one that wheels

around these mountainsides. Those are

cliffs that were her thighs. These braiding

creeklets, skeins of melt, these clefts

of sheer and vaulted lips, they’re yours.

Not so much woman as loam, these bones

I bring, more precipice than limb.

God, I’ve wanted to be your meadow,

your spires, your cirques for squandering days in.

The deckle of dawn as it flushes the stars.

Your hollow. Your lowland fen. The place

where you wade, where you rest, where you

climb and climb again. Again. Walk over me.

I want to give you everything. These

empty bowls. This wind-rung face.

These pitches all acrumble. These slopes

unsloping. These tiny blue bells.

This absence of hope. This earthing.


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