Poetry Journal April 6, 2024

 

 You can’t mount a mountain like you can a volcano, each step up one risks a perilous fall, up the other scalding fingers, blistering where they grip, even though the landscape is much softer, yielding as I press myself against this.

This is where mountain goats go to rut; I am a goat in sheep’s clothing, wishing I was a wolf, aching to feel the vibrations beneath me or as I climb, stirred up in part by where I am and what I touch, a firm grip, a tender grip, taking me higher and deeper with each risky step I take, perhaps unaware of where I am, on what (or whom) I have mounted, mountain or volcano until the fumes appear and the heat to loosen my grip, I do not know which until I feel the whole thing begin to erupt by which time it’s too late to stop.


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