Halfway up the mountain we stop to rest.
To eat. We’ve been clambering up since twilight,
watched the sun rise, wisps of fog sinking below
as we climb. White, hazy, they lift by midday, our legs, heavy,
beg for a rest, our stomachs growl like stray dogs’. A clearing,
cool shade. We take off our shoes, lay out our feast on a blanket.

On the light tray soft goat cheese, pure, warm
we spread it on crunchy seed crackers. Green olives, rich salty,
fragrant like earth, they burst in our mouths, dissolve like
Spring mist. I reach for a sliver of thin-sliced prosciutto,
its leathery softness slow dances on my tongue. Emma crunches
the fullness of green grapes. Mary pops a bottle of seltzer,
hands out small effervescent cups. We fizz. Clara’s voice bubbles,
tells jokes. We laugh in between delightful bites.

Grace has just had a deep tissue massage, two hands and
two feet on my neck, she marvels, I counted them in my drowsy
fog. Lucy, you should try, it makes you relax, forget for a while and–
you walk out like new. Lucy fingers a cracker,
she’s had a difficult week: loss of a friend, teenage son troubles.
Single, now, at night her mind wanders, swollen, alone, unlatched.
Leaning back on a beech trunk she muses, eyes drifting over
the nourishing food, it must feel delicious
to have your skin touched.

Valy Steverllynck is an Argentine-American mother, artist, emerging poet and oyster farmer based in Maine. Her visual work has been shown at the Center for Maine Contemporary Art; DeCordova Museum; Fuler Museum of Art; Centro Recoleta, Argentina, and multiple galleries. When not tending to her oysters, she likes to take long hikes in the woods, swim in salt water and read. She holds degrees from Brown University and University of Wisconsin Madison.