mountain ache

the truth is i miss talking to the rocks. 
i miss how your calls dropped like
boulders tumbling down the side
of the steep cliffs. i always imagined
falling when i lived there. it was comforting
to exist in a place characterized by rupture
& cracks. the mountains around here
are wonderfully old. ancient knees buckled
long before anyone in my family 
grew wings. there are legends of bird people
in my lineage. a grandfather who trades
one mountain to another. his feathers
on the closet floor. i come from a family
of men who fly just out of reach. 
the mountain has a gender that only
asks questions. refuses answers. how lovely
it is to be unknown. to have your bones smoothed
by the rain's persistence. by the legs
of animals who wish you find you.
these days i  get caught up in hunting stop signs.
on the mountain, the land demanded attention.
i am convinced this is why around here
people butcher the land as if it were 
a rack of ribs. they suck the fat. they never share.
this year they leveled another thicket
to build ugly expensive houses with white doors. 
i can still see the mountain in the distance.
you don't call me anymore & so there is
nowhere for your voice to fall. 
on my ugliest days i consider walking back.
calling you until you pick up. i want to ask you
questions you can't answer. what other life
was there for us? when you sleep on a mountain
does a part of you hope to takes you?