The mountain silent.
The air cold.
My toes bare, burned.
I pressed my feet onto limestone,
lunging tired thighs with delicate sways
of one, two, three, four
one, two, three, four.
Fiddleheads unfurl, your voice whispering,
put me in something nicer than a box,
spread me out onto a mountain
the way you blew dandelions as a girl—
I siphoned you into a whiskey carafe taken
from your grandmother’s dead house after her funeral,
before, it overflowed with pennies, now you.
But now that I’m standing here overlooking
a million firs edging our once-small town,
I don’t know if I can—
I had planned to free you, let you into the winds,
I pull the stopper and take a salt pinch of you,
dust you over the sapling at my feet
and we go back down the mountainside together.
S.R. Stewart is a Pacific Northwest poet currently residing in Montana with her sister. She recently spoke at the Montana Book Festival on gender in prose and poetry. Her writing has been published by Nameless, The Fictioneer, The Davis Enterprise, The Vanguard, Spires, Euphony, San Diego Entertainer, and many more. Her first chapbook, Everything I Learned About Men, I Learned from OkCupid was published in 2016. She blogs on WordyBirdy.org and makes handbound journals in her spare time.