Above the Fjord, Amy Cutler, 2010
My two sisters and I were born in the icy air above the fjord. Like the mermaids swimming in the black-green waters below, our bodies are bilingual. Our bellies and breasts whisper in soothing tones of velvet and plum while our hips and heels boom with the force of an avalanche. We have traded in crescent moon thighs and pomegranate knees for a foundation of craggy rock and slate gray cliff. An old farmer in the valley squints up at us and chuckles to his companion, "Look at those old women--those old goats above the fjord. " "No," we echo back, "we are not old goats. We are the mountains who carry the old goats on our backs." My two sisters and I speak of a womanhood that is born from flesh and stone, one that is both fecund and fierce. We hang our colored flags through the hills, joyfully declaring our presence in swaths of blood red and nursery blue.