We Are the Walls
by Sara Aranda
Morning light mountain flake
balance of granite and us
and our feet delicate, malleable hands—
how they trace stone walls
better than the sky.
We’ve come to know another language
of incomprehensible body a dialogue
of skin and blood.
We feel for the cracks sloping edges
the slightest of undulations in a blanket of slab—
how they all seethe and reverberate callous or time, or
the anatomy of fingers and hard bone.
Chockstones for throats heavy, polished, grave—
we yell, inside and out and we question
who is actually listening, or
We scatter self-will with chalk
sow self-doubt and rapture
our limbs like rolling ferns in spring.
We commit and become
split, as bodied as
the walls we’ve come to climb—
that may not exist but it’s enough
to move on our shoes stick
our throats swallow our stones,
and we may be tangents on a stem too steep
too wide, too honest,
but we are what we’ve been wanting
all along. We are what time slowly alters, never forgets
we are the walls where paradise is found and lost
again and again—
the walls we stare at, desire without touching
chase, endure, sit, repose
remember beginnings, erode as and for the mountain,
witness its moods our moods
tell its story our story
and how we only ever just became us again.
But we are soft have always been.
We are fractured and elusive just as defined
by those who cross our length our depth
who pry at our fissures to find
only themselves there staring back.