PROSE POEM
JAYNE MAREK
Mountain Ibex
West Caucasian tur graze at great heights. Their huge horns curl back, ridged, brutal power. Rain, and the mountains capture clouds. Imagine. A thick slice of rainbow lies across one slope, for there is no room in the sky. The brow of the giant mountain hidden, snow breath stirs across weeds. The tur lift their heads, one, then another, then eat again. Lichens and subnival plants, grasses flat under the endless wind. This world granite, schist, gneiss. Pictographs never enough to tell the ancient truths. Keep moving. A single shoe lost in a fissure. Animal bodies: a dozen rucksacks abandoned by hunters. Their brown hides are earth, their bellies snow, their eyes black ice.
Jayne Marek’s seventh poetry collection is Dusk-Voiced, due in 2024. Her writings and photos appear in Terrain, Rattle, The New York Times, Spillway, Bloodroot, Calyx, Catamaran, and elsewhere. She lives in the Pacific Northwest.
