The Holy Mountain

the words were dim and powerful;

the lightbulb it was bare.

i heard him holler lowly

through the grey electric air.

i wrote him back five hundred letters.

but there was nobody there.

Isiah heard him howling.

Elijah heard him too.

a woman swore she heard him

back in nineteen thirty-two.

they took her to the hospital,

but there was nothing they could do.

his glory is a mountain.

it looks fine from far away.

it stands up like a soldier; it

lies down like women lay.

but it doesn’t seem so beautiful,

when you walk it every day.

he doesn’t want to talk to me

in a voice i understand.

he signals and he gestures,

but he doesn’t use his hands.

he’s screaming in the midnight,

but there’s silence through the land.

each day i’m getting younger.

forgetting everything i know.

the garden i was growing

is buried under snow.

the day i get the youngest,

will be the day i have to go.

my house is dark and humble.

it’s quiet and it’s cold.

it wraps around the space within,

but barely keeps its hold.

used to invite the night to sleep with me,

now it doesn’t need to be told.

there are goats along the road.

there are sequins on my vest.

my children scream in agony,

i hold them to my chest.

i pulled a card on the full moon.

it didn’t say that i was blessed.

so if you hear his voice,

take quickly to the boats.

push off from every coastline;

drown him out with shouts.

but you who walk that holy mountain,

i sure hope you’re wearing coats.