“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.