A new poem by Megan Alford

Les Amis de la Montagne

In the premature warmth,
Sunday afternoon,
we make the pilgrimage
up a hill we call a mountain.
It sings to us of le patrimoine,
le patrimoine.

We have the day off.
There is brunch in our bellies.
Coffee sloshing around.
Splashed mud staining
our pant legs. Our dogs run.

This is the act we’ve got together.
This is living for the moment.
We cherish our bodies.
Our dogs do not have any anxiety.
There are still patches of snow,
untouched by the light.

We love our boyfriends.
We don’t need any boyfriends.
No one is drunk. Our families are safe.
We can call them on a computer,
and see their faces far away.

There is nothing that needs doing.
We can make our lunches for
tomorrow then, but for now,
we stand among the tourists,
leaning over stone, on top of
everything, even horizon.