not sleeping writing

You talk about justice. This is a just world. A just world. I've tried to answer, to tell you what I've seen, but I still don't know how to speak. My windpipe was a flute once, wood worn smooth by fingertips, the way the oil in our skin dissolves the ridged edges of stones we touch over and over, pebbles that were part of the mountain when I was born. I look at these hands and try to remember the time before they learned shame. Now they cover my mouth and wrap around the thinning muscle of my heart to quiet it and ask me questions with no space between for answers. I tell myself I am a mountain, trying to forget the roots that tunnel deep into her skin, the claws of cougars that run across her naked back. The ridge above our house makes me think of a spine beneath skin, the way it dips into shadow then sweeps up to the sky, over and over until it disappears without reason. Even so, I've never thought twice about climbing it. I dig in my toes and pull myself up, clutching handfuls of moss and never falling. At the top, I expect to see myself, but mountains have no mirrors but the clear cold water seeping up from the rocks and it's frozen white this time of year. I expect to see myself, search for my face but only find my fingernails and the dirt underneath them, then looking down toward town find a road I almost recognize. I wrote a letter to you once and said the mountain is the only place I don't need a mouth. I wonder now if she feels the same way, my feet against her backbone, footprints all around.