Mountains, she says, mountains.
You can’t get anywhere
without climbing one or crossing one.
Every road is a mountain road.
Even the sidewalks are trails
more up than across.
She says her church is a mountain,
though a small one.
And the local Starbucks
must be a mile above sea-level
if it’s an inch.
The place she’s living is so tall
she can’t see the top.
And the guy she’s dating
is more feldspar, smoky quartz,
than flesh and bone.
And she has a job with low pay, high vistas.
She spends her day dodging avalanches.
She says she envies me my ocean,
my flatness, the fat full greasy air I breathe.
She’ll be out to see me soon
if she doesn’t stumble getting down.
JOHN GREY is an Australian-born poet. He recently published work in International Poetry Review, Sanskrit, and the science fiction anthology, Futuredaze. Upcoming work will appear in Clackamas Literary Review, New Orphic Review, and Nerve Cowboy.