Published by In Her Place on November 29, 2011


by Diane Raptosh

She missed looking at mountains and seeing men in them, tens of them maybe—rows of rough-hewn torsos waiting for her to finally knuckle down. She wanted still to feel the need to mount them, one at a time, to lay to, to undo their detachment, to back-stride every set of jags on the Cascades, to hasp onto the furthest peaks of the Brabazon Range and fall to work, one quick pump of every other point on the Carpathians, whip hand not hanging on to anything. She missed the need to think she had to do something swashy or wry with her tongue on the west tip of the Rockies—bent up and scarp-faced, to lick out the fusty, unseen rucks of so many folding contortionists, or, to do something more rose-hued, like bleed all over the pointiest part of Los Cuernos del Paine in southern Chile or ease slowly down the nose of each face in the Presidential Range. She yearned to long again for the mass of the great great Grampians in Oceania lying in wait beneath her, for the Slovene Karavanke chain to openly slake her liquid need. Not to mention effects of thinking of the Montes Recti and Mons Hansteen—mountains on the moon—ready for just such scenes to come to fruition. Nor to mention Cuba’s Sierra Maestra. She’d always wanted to hover just over that mother-idea.

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