Below the tarnished copper sun air, I heard the breath of the Mountain Child.
Their eyes marked by the weather of a million small, punitive glares,
Wrote me in blinks and agitation.
They said to the splintered sun rays, “You can’t hear me speak when you don’t see through me. So please, see with me.”
The sun did not respond.
In a husky, leathered tone the Mountain Child looked down with refutation,
— and with that the Mountain Child picked up a crystal Ornament,
It looked engraved, they thought, with the spirit of the Sunshine Masters,
Who killed the world.
In gentle tattered hands, the Mountain Child held the Ornament and in its reflection the Mountain Child felt a tinge, like the stroke of the hand on a working clock
— a relic where time seems misplaced —
And with soil-crusted fingers, the Mountain Child lifted the metal tin and let the Ornament speak, and in an oily tone it said, “Hear me speak … O’ sound of youth … I remember the song of yesterday … you think you are what you are not … listen to the ground beneath you.”
The ground did not respond.
And with minute-like aches in their knuckles and rusted rim eyes, the Mountain Child looked back at the sun, and walked away,
Hearing the bones of Ornaments crack underneath them.
Contact Layla Chamberlin at [email protected].