My traitor tongue whispers tales like wind
through mountain hollows, hugging teeth
like clouds that cradle snowy peaks. I’ve mapped
this topography in abundance, traced familiar trails
like lines inked by well-worn pen, stain
left to pool at base of storied waters. I’ve touched
these knees to dirt, legs bent like switchback on old
country roads, rooting fingers in mud rough enough
to leave nails piled like rocks in memorial,
pointing at zenith: Ozark, Blue Ridge,
Appalachian—each peak a hole
in my sham geography.
Photo by Mitsuo Komoriya on Unsplash
