Mountaineers

They cling onto your back
like flies
on an elephant.
They have a map
but it won’t do them any good
if you’re hungry.
You yawn
and the cold blue sheet of your face
cracks open
and swallows them up.
Were you just feeling irritable
when you arched your hulking body
and sent a thunderstorm of ice
barrelling down your chest
like a thousand freight trains
sending them flying
like toys?
Or was it payback
for the trees
we tore off the skin
of your sisters?
Please spare the men and women
who climb you.
They are obsessed
with you; they cannot resist
your indifference.
They want to know
how they will be judged
when they reach your eyes:
will they float
on your exhale
or will you blow
them over.