Take me on a mountain top,
brown cascades and rusty dirt lodged
beneath our skin, sequestered
under nails, dried tumbleweed
scratched along my back – red white
welts in swirled, tangled streams.
Take me on a mountain top,
with heaven watching down ahead
a constant judgement brokered
only by the stars and eagles
soaring overhead – desert air
100 miles over sea, a fall of dust
dried against my forehead.
Take me on a mountain top.
Take me fast or slow, long or soft,
just make it on a mountain top,
one with bears and antelope
fracture our restraints with chains
and cleave the earth in two,
smoky ground and dampened musk.
Two bodies merge like beasts.
Aubrey Wallen Literary Journal and Papers 