Where the Wild Things Are

Graphic by Charlotte Lawson

I am ledges on cliffsides.
my nerves are hoofbeats, bleats
of skinny mountain goats. 
My upper lip is a faucet 
where the snow top melts,
sneaking downwards 
towards the belly bottom.
Soft light grows algae 
on the pool there.
Mosquito larvae float dizzy
under fiddleheads unfurling. 
Leaking muzzles make themselves 
undone underneath me, drinking
between the mossy branches
of my cedar softness.
They dig rivulets and run,
leaving prints between the trunks
that are my legs and the clearings 
that are my knees. 
I am the mountain yet, 
a craggy feast for wild things.