or, Summiting Mount Pilchuck
My bowl of ramen had a goofy face,
chashu grinning up at me, squishy orange
eyeballs framed by egg-white, no pupils,
hair twirled around my chopsticks.
I need to know: were the parked cars angry,
and if so, were they angry at me? One’s
headlight eyes narrowed; another’s
mouth contorted, teeth bared.
But with the face of this mountain underfoot I can’t
make out its expression. At cerebral elevation,
my nose bleeds, ramen broth dripping
down my chin, coloring the bushes red.