You are very successful
but you have rocks in your chest,
wedged where your breasts should be.
Your stomach is a boulder.
To hold you up, your legs grow stony too.
You zip your jacket up
and nobody notices you are a mountain.
You buy coffee,
run board meetings where no-one says
you’re made of scree
but above your head, their talk is weather,
your eyes collect new rain
and you know what you are because
like any hillside
you don’t sleep. Your feet could hold you here
forever but your sides
are crumbling, and when you speak
your words are rockfall, you’re
scared your heart is tumbling from your mouth.