In the Foothills

In the Foothills

hemming in,
the foothills taste just like chokecherries
pressed into smaller spaces
foothill suburbs burst with sunbeams, stifled in
their own rib joints

low ridge over high school shows
red pocked grocery roof,
flickering swimming pools and heat
hazed tennis courts,
the mountain base

which I rushed until I couldn’t climb any more, up
cawing and lowing of cattle and crows up
beaten down dry grass hair up
the lowing of the mountain
born in canyon hips, now flowed up
tarantulas at my feet
we surged for our own messages
in twisted tilted oak branches
break bounding up

mountain summit showed
down in the wine cheese park festival
middle women all pintucked
middle men wine drunk, letting off regular odors
jazz so loud and hollering so muffled
I am back in the asphalt swimming
old gum and chlorine rising
who escaped
I rolled and slipped

mountain summit shows, I can see where I
tangled myself up like a bird in netting,
the grip of deer-addled foothills
spread on the summit and all thought was
mild hill creases are not enough
with fast fading and clinging
in foothills there is the taste of
aprons pressed with chokecherries

in the foothills my chest opens up
like window shutters to let air ruffle
my high skirt hem up
to my shoulders
which avalanched down from mountain holdings
and do not stretch above the foothills