We Are the Walls
by Sara Aranda
Morning light, hollow flake
balance of granite and us
and our feet, delicate
how they trace stone walls
better than the sky.
We’ve come to know another language
of immaterial body a dialogue
of skin and its 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
field self-doubt and rapture
into rolling ferns
we become as transient, as transparent as
the walls we’ve come to climb
that may not really exist,
but it’s enough to move on; our shoes stick,
our throats swallow our stones
and we are tangents in a mountain 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 the mountain,
witness its moods our moods
tell its story our story
and how we only ever just became
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.