for Ellesa

All of us hiked that day, hardly speaking.
Up Indian Staircase, toeholds held us
in the worn sandstone. At Court House Rock,
we inched up the stone flue
by the sheer press of our bodies against it.

Nothing but boulders below
and armfuls of air.
It’s no wonder your legs gave out –
your husband already at the summit
locked in his solitude,
the rest of us oblivious as dust.

God damn it, I’m not stone, you cried.
Lend a hand, someone, lend a hand.

Though we all longed to breathe the higher air,
to hide our human scent in mountain pine,
those of us close by cooed to you,
as if calming a child, as if
the spoken syllables were guy lines
or pitons wedged safely
all the way to the top.

Later, at the summit, some of us
still listened to the wind in our ears;
others heard a more human voice.