Mountain Peak

Josh Pearce

The mountain range
(she) is bare and white
and sleeps in ups and downs
like rumpled bedsheets.

From the excavated dish
of her mid (unruffled)
riff I walk toward gentle
inclines the tips of which

are alive
with roses.

Up the strata of ribs I leave
no footprints, cast no
shadow as light flecks reflect
off her every angle.

In her last dendrite trees
twitch the bluebirds
of sleep from black branch
to black branch.

I am shorter
and shorter of breath
and closer to her
final summit
and here

her trees alight, each
dangled ganglia leaves
turning orange red green yell
with arousal of

and here

the most zen of mount
aineers would retreat,
frozen, from the mound
for the mountain.

But I delve her, watch
the trees blossom white
fruit flower sparks. She
mutters pleasure breaths

through the copse, washes
the flowers off
and out across her thighs.

The mountain sighs,
turns over in her sleep.

Josh Pearce is an assistant editor at Locus with writing in Analog, Asimov's, Beneath
Ceaseless Skies, Clarkesworld, and others. His favorite lunar feature is Sinus Iridum but his favorite moon in the Solar System is Umbriel. Find more of his work at