“Comstock” by Diana Turken
I am
blasting at mountains
cause I could never hit a woman
in my fist I hold
solid packed gold
but I grab for you in the dark
and find soft skin
a whiteness that
glows like the moon
the water answers a sharp pitch
rocks fall like streams
then roots
then dust
water follows
being just that
some things call for dynamite and for
some my hand has a name
and creeps towards permission
when it is not allowed
by geography
or law
the hand finds a point
to sharpen towards
i accuse the mountain
for it cannot reply
i imagine
it must be a relief
to fall away around the lode
like linen
i fill my pockets to wade
in the river and float
with the weight of fortune
despite which my foot leaves
no mark
when you raid a mountain
you must tiptoe
away lest the coon
or the fox come
find you
i require a certain
softness but I demand
a prolonged roar
in the bar
so the returning is a
slow stagger uphill
a measured defiance of gravity
an old hounds hunt
for home
i could break the rock
for I was sprung from the
earth in a knot
but I could never strike a woman