i fall down roan mountain, again
anyway, i get back up
while the trees, smelling
heavy of birth and crown
shyness, sway over us.
reluctantly press my
palms into bloodknees.
wish for scratch marks over
scar tissue: miracle feed.
overhead, the blackbirds
sweet talk blackbirds—
and my mother’s legs
turn/return limitless over
the bald. vessels of hope
x1,000 steps. she tells
me how mountain rain
never pulls its punches.
nonetheless, we brush
our knuckles against
rhododendron, and down
the trail a man on horse-
back is popping the top
off a beer bottle. like
every good mountain,
i’m slowly splitting
apart—hairline and
heavengrove inevitable.
still, we stop for granola
bars, fix our eyes up to
the cloud cover. behind
it, the first afternoon star
puts a splint on its knee.