Mountain

by Helen Mort


Mountain

You are very successful
but you have rocks in your chest,

 

skin-coloured sandstone

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.