In 1924, English Mountaineer George Mallory attempted to become the first man to summit Mount Everest, the world’s tallest mountain.
he said to the reporter,
who asked why.
Why he wanted to climb Everest.
The mountain that would kill him
that killed him and
his man Sandy
and left Ruth
a knowing eyed widow.
Ruth made the music
played the piano and flute
and sang.
She sang him Sweet Primroses.
And he listened
to that song
and he loved a song
that wasn’t about him.
The song of the longing
suitor false deceiver
who, turned away,
goes down
to some lonesome valley
where no man on earth shall find him
where the pretty
little small birds
do change their voices
and every moment blows
a blusterous wind.
He listened and laughed
and looked up,
A swain unwavering.
Don’t cry for me, for I
go where music is born
he asked
of his family,
of Ruth
and of Frances Clare, Berridge, and
John
breathing nine, seven, and
four years
the morning he left them
to grow taller, alone.
He lived
for no lonesome valley
where no man would find him
but for one
lonely peak,
where all might behold him.
Where the wind
ripped through him
and the air
outran his sucking lungs.
Until he fell.
They think, maybe
he cut himself free
to fall alone.
Large scavenging birds
laughed their single laugh
and ripped out his organs.
But his back remains,
its own mountain
preserved, pure white stone.
They think
the men made it.
That they fell descending.
To see him
on top
means it is okay
for us that he suffered.
He never dreamed
of us looking up.
He saw only himself
looking down.