I’m Mad At The Mountain

I’m mad at the mountain.
You hear me?

I can think no deeply for the murderer,
but for the mountain,
for the bloody visitation that sits
on a stone loose by one side
to set the scene for us.
I’m mad that a mountain can talk,
that a cliff’s edge is both tongue and tooth.

I once couldn’t speak up, too.
I once wanted to open my own heart
with a wound-key, I once begged
for more mouths with which to say,
‘I’m afraid of this,’

so if the space between me and death
can make a mouth, can say
there is a rule above me,
and that mouth says, ‘this is fine,’
‘these things are subjective, you can imagine,’
‘who are you to cast this aside?’

I am something that once tripped
and fell in the cauldron’s boilover core,
was left to peel away, to cry,
was told it’d hurt less if I shut up.

I’ve been dashed to the rocks, too,
you know.
To learn that somewhere those stones talk,
have opinions, even a jury,
and then they simply hem the thought—

well, I disagree with the mountain,
and that’s why I am still here.

Someone once cried for me, too—
the text messages were sopping, even mine—
said they had proven enough,
would even prove with blood,
that meant I should meet that halfway—

down the mountain, long, in slow motion.
I always had to repay an abstract noun’s debts
with a verb or two.
So excuse me if I don’t even care about the murderer.
Excuse me if I have some words with
the edge, long, sharp, and so fucking talkative.

Excuse me if I think
it should not even have spoken at all.
Excuse me if I saw the
mountain see me, take the scene in
with all the depth and granularity
that dust-fine senses can provide.

Excuse me if I wanted anything,
even the mountain,
to say this wasn’t for any reason at all.
Excuse me when the mountain
says I have mixed up the meaning of the word—
I always had to repay an abstract noun’s debts
with a hurt, a few, I’m kind of tired
of being the only one who comes to the mountain
with verbs.

I’m kind of tired of having
to see the mountain’s humanity.
I saw the length, the whole
damn thing, I have measured
the mountain’s love in lengths of me,
down to the cracked millimeter.
And the mountain said,
‘that seems accurate, I think,
we can make that count.’

I’m kind of tired
of being the only one who comes to the mountain
with more mouths on me
just so I can meet its voice, contest it,
I’m kind of tired
of screaming from all of them.

I’m kind of tired
of all of their fading.

The mountain didn’t have to be here
and I would still be a rule
of something.

But it announced itself.
It isn’t anything I haven’t heard before.
It promises to find something,
it finds it looking down at my body
and saying, ‘this is perfect.’