Communal Breath – Mountain Trace

September 2024

Bulgaria

We begin in our communal outdoor kitchen,
the plates returned cleaned and dried to the wooden shelves,
the vessels that once held the Irish stew I cooked.

We find ourselves surrounded by cows
that roam the Eastern Rhodope mountains;
we dance gently past their curious eyes.

We move together through the abandoned village—
inside and outside houses,
climbing down toward the waterfall,
passing pine and oak trees,
while our voices cling to the leaves.

Our bodies feel the cold welcome of water held in the stream.
A large beetle dives down into the depths and back to the air;
the water weaves, flows, and trickles on its way to the waterfall.

We climb.
We share two cars.
We find ourselves at the vitrine,
which holds fragments of our words
from the reading and listening group that came before.

The sun is setting.
Our communal fire crackles into the night air,
mingling with distant Bulgarian music and chatty crickets.
The timbre of my voice joins the chorus—
our communal voices tangle.

Our bodies respond to filmic breath between the firelight and our head touches.
My body disorients, orients, and reorients between the filmic body and my own.