by Amy Nemecek
We followed him
to the top of this
great, high Mountain,
grew heavy-eyed,
footsore. I stuck
one of those
barking dogs
into my open
mouth before
cloud-command
shut it fast.
When our fathers
approached your
holy Mountain,
brushing a blade
of grass meant death.
Now the Mountain
clasps my shoulder,
tousles John’s hair,
slaps James on the back
as we follow him down,
still very much alive.