RELATIONSHIP Poem: On Poor Mountain, by Fletch Fletcher

I’m sitting in drought grass. The breeze
brushes my back, the light on my chest,
tops of cloud-shrouded hills spread until my eyes fail.
From here, I could straddle these rounded
green and brown mounds of dirt and trees
to step back home across a god’s
walkway. I hear chirping in the shin-high
grass, and clicking beside blades from flies touching
crossed legs at a tangent. A scream.

A second scream.

There are two voices. Three,
maybe more. My boots pull right.
Rush into larger noise. My journal
grounded with ants. I can’t find
the trail into woods only woods.
I land in brush, hands full,
knife flipped and pen pointed.
I think of snakes. A father
carries his son toward me. Sweating
siblings slow to a trot and the bees
stopped following.
I click my blade closed, pocket it, the pen
caps and I empty my hands
before them. From my saddle bag
I offer aloe for the tears, and the wind
flipped my journal back to the beginning.

Author: poetryfest

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