Circa 2013, when my poems were still very third-culture kiddy-slash-mountain mountain-slash-ALL MY LADIES.
This is where I stop asking
permission — somewhere between
the loosening of shoulders
and the unraveling
of thunder. Tonight,
I will teach you what it is
to have the quivering earth
swallow you whole. To all at once
be rent from the self you know.
On my hut floor, rain pools cold
in the furrow beneath
your head; runs in deluges off my brow
onto your tongue. No salt
in this water. Nothing human
beneath these skins. No —
that is not your barrow,
thrashed to kindling
on the rocks outside.
Perhaps another boy’s. Hush.
I close your eyes. As the wind rasps
long fingers across the walls,
I unfold the avalanche
I keep inside of me,
breathe it stone by stone
into your fluttering throat.
The storm drowns in this sound.
Sunrise waits to arrive. We are
the only two creatures alive.
(Photo by Yuriy Khimanin)
