Mary Cokenour, "Cave Rocks / Sierra La Sal / Dry Valley," 2014
The mountain reclines, propped up on an elbow of old volcanisms, a dense slope-shouldered anticline pressing towards the highway. But this is only one manifestation of the Heavenly-Man-Neither-Man- Nor-Woman, this mountain—every part’s a whole in this place that sings itself into being through its mineral self, its organic self. As if Adam Ha-Rishon, my ancestor’s gigantic, all-souled embodiment of Creation, was Walt Whitman, as if my minute self could understand such a gift (it can’t). Still, I’ll sing to it, within it, my thin voice scratchy as a cricket’s, joyful for the rain in the distance, for greener land.