By Donika Kelly
All the women are mountains,
and so I am a mountain.
See how I’ve pushed into the sky?
See what rooks I’ve become?
See, when I say love I mean stone,
though we both cut the heavens,
and stone can’t mean love
unless some grander magic
returns us to each other.
This is how a mountain dreams,
remembers being more than earth
pushed from earth, recalls the small difference
between rock and bone, remembers
how small the body can feel
against itself and, dreaming, misses,
for a moment, the thin air across its face,
a falling cloud, and then the sun.