The Most Beautiful Moment in the World

In the coldest corner of the mountain,

I was naked.

The skin of my feet dry.

I sat in the only washroom 

and pierced my eyes into the chapped tile as if

looking for an invisible mist to speak.

My lips broken,

licked over and over.

I made a reel of scintillating mold.

Above, behind me the transparent window pocket

of every terrain’s embedded ledge.

A diary-sized panel of glass.

It was the room that was hungry.

Bottom bare on the toilet seat,

I looked away but looked forever

under the window’s gaze.

I was what the mountain peered into except

I peered further. I peered

into the wall of opacity.

I was the first to feel cold without seeing the snow.

Goosebumps scratched in bubbles on every corner of my limbs.

I toed my feet into the porcelain ground

and stamped harder into the pavement

I chose for a carousel of fighting.

On a ground not moving I know where my feet are.

I jam into the pavement a stamp mark of my own keratin.

Toenail hoofing the suburbanite grid of a tundra. 

My standing my only welding glaze.

Under a photo panel 

of the coldest corner of the mountain

my eyes never leave my body as they wait

for my feet to puncture.

Walk like you haven’t lost yet, so don’t move.

Self-made parachute in a plummet.

I will save nothing.

When the purge comes,

there will be nothing left for me to save

so I close my eyes to thank you.