When I open my mouth,

I speak mountains, crags tearing

at the corners of my lips.

Each sentence wraps, like twilight fog,
around Mount Rigi

missing her lakes, wondering

when we started making history

out of anything but granite.
The choices we pronounced

            grew roots through soil

            reaching into calcified grottos,

            dripped from stalactites to stalagmites,

            ran down mint-coloured rivers

            and ended up as glittering stones

            for sub-alpine children

            to twist their tongues around.
Now, on flatter terrain, my fricatives

no longer touch the uvula,

so I cultivate wild garlic

in my glottis, glacial erratics 
rolling off my alveolar ridge.

Elderflowers bloom on my tonsils

in a September spring: my name

has a new melody, I am more
than an Umlaut – stroking spruces

with my tongue, I press them

to the front between my teeth,

their obstruction producing the sound
of a Föhn storm sweeping the forest.