Coming upon another mountain
She smoked him out on the forked mangrove path up a sloped, caved elevation. He was wearing a white billowing shirt and camel linen pants. Dark plum juice stained his hands, so that at first she thought he had killed someone, hurt someone, someone. She sat observing from a nestled col or peak. What was important was that her view was from above. He wouldn’t stop eating the plums. They were big-toe sized plums with reedy stalks and black slick flesh. He thinks he’s a bear sometimes, she whispered in the belly of her throat. Thinks he can grab and stuff, grab and stuff. He was a globe, a mountain, a hard shell. His mountain-mouth became a rubbed out black mark on a fresh page. Sliding two plums between her fore- and middle-fingers like a pool cue, she perched just out of view near the estuary’s edge. Later, she cut out thousands of o’s in the bloodied meat dish her mountain-mother had thrown away from the mince bubbling on the stove. She wrinkled her nose at the smell, puckered like the itching back of a wild pig.