By: Robert Beveridge

“Wie schön sang Else Feuske, als sie,/während dere Sommerferien,/in großer Höhe daneben trat,/in einen stillen Gletscherspalt stürtze,/uns nur ihr Schirmchen/und das hoke C zurückließ.”—Günter Grass, “Die Schule der Tenöre”

It is not volume, it is pitch,
how the tones of your voice darken
as we ascend. A small mountain,
but unpathed, the climb requires
pitons, ropes, and always the search
for handholds.

Sundown, in the tent, our fingers
used to the clench and feel of rock
dig into one another, find the crevices
and let us climb, this time
with lips and tongue, then plunge
into that desired crevasse.

We know, full well, come morning
we will have to climb again,
and the pinnacle, as always,
looks that much farther away.