High in the mountains,
hidden among boulders
where nothing grows
but lichen
and silver grass.
By now
most assume
I am dead.
The cold, the snow,
the nights without fire
or the warmth
of a body
other than my own.
No one has seen me.
Still, some come
looking—
boots and dogs,
guns and photos,
those who remember
my name.
They want to find me,
expose me,
carry me down
and make me answer.
If I keep still,
they will pass.
Not here.
Not tonight.
About the Author: Jacob Friesenhahn is the author of the poetry collection The Prayer of the Mantis (Kelsay Books, 2025). This poem appears here for the first time.