Two of Her

Mountains of wrinkled up

Stretched across.

Bulges of choices

So badly made.

You could fit two of her

In me.

Board straight

No mountains there.

Just plains and plains

of bare.

Mosquito bites

they used to call them.

Now jugs or melons

they giggle and say

with a putrid green envy

in their eyes.

It’s hard being honey

and baby as I walk

down and across

the streets of towns who

have loved me through

my stick times.

And now as a Grecian

I hear the cartoonish

whistling and horns

and feel as if the world has

put big bold lights on me.

Shaming me for owning

these mountains and melons.

Why can’t I be a plain or a beach?

Bad choices made who I am.

Does the presence of the mountain air

seduce those to make bad choices?

Maybe if I let the rain and wind

whither me away,

I will feel the warmth of the Atlantic’s

summer air.

The people will come and go

and pay no mind to the

mountains and mosquitos.

Just the affectionate air

this life provides.

And I will remain a mountain.

Something big curved,

standing in your way.

Vulnerable to every action

Mother nature enacts upon us.

And the mountain can feel the

climate mocking.

It can’t be changed. It’s going to happen, they say.

Seems impossible for this mountain

to become as flat as a plain.

As arid as a desert.

As uninviting as the heat of Georgia summers.

As dry as the sand you do not wish to slumber upon

as you trek through that parching desert.

No one wants to stay.

The mountains seem cool and moist.

The houses are cozy and warm.

Inviting.

Why would they want to stay with a view

that’s so stark and vast across

this big wide world?

It’s nothing really. Just a stare into

sheer steep shadows.

Bulges of the earth that are somehow

Inviting.

But why would they visit when they

have not received an invitation?

Or have been continuously uninvited?

I must become like the desert.

Like the plains or the beach.

Uninviting.