By: Cynthia Pitman

Had there but been an Oracle sitting atop Fifth Mountain, I might have been warned:

It is not the touch, it is the reach
that holds us captive –
the gnawing ache that propels the hand
to stretch, to seek.
That one blind moment of risk
dismisses danger out of desperation
for the human touch.
But sometimes we find
the strength to defy fear.
We stretch.
Then the reach is consummated:
we touch.
It is at that moment that we should tremble,
for we know not if our reach has led us
to touch joy or eternal misery.
We are prepared to bear neither.

But had there been an Oracle, there may never have been a story to be told. There was no Oracle. Here is my story.

We held hands – a gentle touch – as we walked by No Name River, laughing and whispering secrets. We raced the river down to Black Rock jutting out over the water, claiming victory as we sat down on its slick surface, careful not to slip. Together we emptied our pockets of the freshly picked blackberries we had stolen along the way. We savored their sweetness, that juicy pop in our mouths that tasted like ecstasy. Then we stretched out and dozed under the sun’s warm rays.

Life then was soft,
fading into a quiet sigh
of contentment.
Not like that fateful moment:
a sudden cry of shock
at the sharpness, the cut,
the pain that would ache
like it still aches now,
when the softness is gone,
and nothing is left but silence.

Now I sit alone on Black Rock. Loneliness wraps me in a cold cloak. The gray sky does not invite me to a soothing nap. My pockets hold no blackberries; I taste only bitterness. I will stand soon, careful not to lose my grip, fall into the rushing water, and finally allow it to carry me downstream to wherever it took you.

All you took when you left
was my one thin layer of skin.
Vulnerable, open to the harsh elements,
I stumbled back into the world.
Though hurt at every turn,
I endured.
I grabbed for more and more suffering.
With each passing day
a new layer of skin grew.
Soon I knew I had grown
enough armor to keep me safe
from the world’s harm.

Now thick-skinned, I no longer reveal the soft places within. Instead, I seek the company of those who are just like I used to be: thin-skinned and innocent. With my new thick skin, it is easy to hurt them.

I hurt them with targeted intent.
It brings me a new kind of delight –
the thrill of the hunt –,
one I savor with passion.
Somewhere out there,
my next target awaits me.
I will be coldly patient.
It’s only a matter of time
before I run into you again.

And when I do, I tell you: Travel down No Name River. Seek Fifth Mountain. Only there will you find what you are destined to find: the secret of my newly-twisted heart.

Fifth Mountain is where
my heart’s newborn sinews
were forged in fire
then snarled into a barbed bludgeon.
My shield is no secret:
a mere smile is all.
Subterfuge, my specialty now, is easy.
My sword? My tongue,
sharp and sure in its aim.
Climb Fifth Mountain.
There hides my monster’s lair.
I lie in wait.
Seek me there.

After I sliced you to the quick with my treacherous sword, I expected satisfaction, a smug relief, a sense of triumph. I expected to go on, to stride the world in confidence with a benign condescension. What I did not expect was regret.

The moon carved an arc
from the sun today –
eclipsed its power
and covered its curve in darkness,
suffocating the sun’s sharp sting.
Sunlight still shone down,
but its edge was gone,
softened by the shadows
of the moon’s craters
in the cut curve.

Maybe I should have done the same with my own sharp light: just eased my sting a little bit – softened my edges – not cut so deep – so deep I bled your heart dry. This ever-after I now suffer burrows holes in my heart and crawls through my veins. I seek succor from my memories

but find only rebukes and castigation.
If you will come back for me in the morning,
I will rise from my bed of goose feathers
and bathe in the cold spring waters
that flow down from the waterfall
outside of our window.

I will comb my hair with the scrimshaw comb
you brought me from the treasure ship
of a Portuguese pirate,
and cover it in Spanish lace
you brought me that fateful spring.

I will wrap a garland of blush-pink tea-roses
around my head, those that grow wild
at the garden gate,
and don the dress you brought me
made from summer-white Egyptian cotton
and place the beaded Moroccan sandals
on my bare feet.

I will hang the dark Tahitian pearls
from my ears, the gift you gave me
with a sweet dark kiss,
and drape a long daisy chain
of sweet mountain violets around my neck.

I will pack a wicker basket full
with wild ripe blackberries
stolen from the mountain paths
and add the French cheese and wine
you once brought home to me.

I will walk down the mountain
and meet you by the well,
embraced by the bounty
of our mountain home’s lonely grace
and adorned by riches of the wide world
you have traveled so long without me.

I will.
If only you will come back for me in the morning.