When does loneliness end? They tell me
not to ask this question until I break
my legs
on the mountain climb
I look up at the monastery
an atlas bone holding up
the heavens
I promise to continue my
weight training here. They accept me
on condition that it isn’t
wait training
that I engage in the purple robes of
the momentary
the bells inside my chest
the thin air
that might kill me
As I am in my nonage, others are
in their dotage
already half fused into the mountain’s
spine

I tell them what loneliness feels like
an evil tenderness
What I hear in reply
snorts of amusement
someone sneezing out my
my poor understanding

The unbroken goes on up here
in this, my hobbled courtship

Which bone in my body is the
most useful? This I will sacrifice
give to the gods
a humerus, say, or
better yet
a femur
that might give faith a leg

I don’t understand loneliness
I should substitute
fear
or perhaps reluctance
Even try for extreme ravenous hunger
or senseless joy

I pass through the galing halls at night
and wonder
will this wind ever take me home
This ache
I can’t believe
it’s me
While I weight it out
The gossip I hear
the clack of so many femur bones buried
in the mountain

—Julie Esther Fisher

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