The Phantom - Mountain Rain

The Phantom -  Mountain Rain

Cynthia Zhang
(Originally Written Nov. 24, 2011)

 

The white cloak blocked the car window.

 

Frantic heart and tightened skull

Helped little with a highway ten feet long.

 

This phantom of the mountain

Pressed his face unto the rims of

My misty glasses.

 

Tugging his cloak around

Each and every inch of the space

Where there was oxygen,

The phantom wanted his face to be seen.

 

Behind the mask,

There was a face

Different from any other.

Wake up,

See all the mountains cut by half!

 

Releasing his grip

Around my throat, the phantom

Took off his ground touching cloak,

Cutting it into pieces,

Transforming bits and pieces

Into cloud-like light fog.

 

Look afar,

Silver silk surrounded

The black mountains.

Look down,

My car floated on

The steamy ocean.

Look back, there was the phantom.

 

The phantom without his mask!

His face was wrinkled and rottening!

 

Please, put on your mask!

 

Music inside.

Food and sweet disserts.

Look outside,

My phantom was rocking around.

 

His eyes closed,

Tapping his feet,

His hands directing a band:

Come, he said, come to me.

Come, he invited, come outside

To join me,

To be subsumed by

This slow rhythm of two.

 

My palm in his,

I swirled and

Glided:

Once, twice, thrice...

Then, bump!

 

Gliding and swirling,

Carried away by the

Fleshy hillside and

Sprawling pasture,

I broke again,

Oh, no,

Into his rocky lap.

 

My phantom flew,

Fleeing from his crime scene:

Come, my dear,

I am now hiding behind

This homy farmland

With a small house of

Building blocks.

 

Do not be frightened by my mask.

Look my way,

Look close at my face,

When you might not

Be able to see my body.

 

There, on the yonder side

Of the mountain range,

would rise Appolo,

My phantom...

 

I would wait till tomorrow

If tomorrow would ever come.

When the rays of the sun

Would Stroke the lifeline

Of the elevation,

I would rinse my feet

In the lucid stream.

I would wear my wooden

Mountain flip flops

To climb to the peak.

 

My phantom,

Kneeling down to spread

His cloak of fine linen on the grass,

Would escort me to ride

Over the heights,

To breathe in and with

The mountains,

Till the essence from them

Would sweep clean

The small worries,

Till we become nature.