In Our Mountain

a poem by Roger B Rueda
for Jimmy

Never did I know then that there is
a pink mountain,
an avatar-like one,
and that this life of ours is like
going climbing.
Do we own this mountain?
Who made this mountain,
I always ask.
Here I love to trudge
through pink grasses,
and trees. You,  too.
Others stay
at the foot
and hide behind some trees.
A wicked witch as if
put a curse
on them: they’ve turned
banana-like, or
mysterious fruits.
Some come back from their trudge
and, as if by magic,
they become doll hunters
in another mountain.
We don’t have a doll
and it’s our dream.
So, we wave our magic wand
and pink money appears.
It usually works
like a charm with the hunters:
funny, we are hunters of the hunters.
We have crowns
of foreskins. They’re like
feathers in our cap.
The red carpet
was rolled out
for my crowning years
before your crowning,
even though you
were dead for a shorter time
than me.
Your necklace of bananas
is long, but
mine is longer,
it stretches
across the horizon.
You’re a glutton
for bananas.
Me, too, but not
for the pink ones.
They are like Mystique
in X-Men.
It’s as if my drink
was laced with a deadly poison.