The Quintessential Language of Bridges
The bridge, impatient for movement
Leapt from the riverbank
Arced high, deft as a diver
or acrobat. I rode
the center grip, appalled.
Bridges are for crossing.
It decided to cross the void
jealous of the freedom
of downflow,
Sensing my fear
cormorant whispers whistled
through knot holes.
Bridge denied the other side
satisfaction; decided
to ride memories of longing.
I went down with the ship,
My old life whistled past.
Bridge became swan.
I lost hold, irreversible
invitation to vertical realities.
I tasted the Seine, measured
descent by drought scars
digesting the depth of tears.
Water planet rulers
hold no quarter for children
dressed in denial.
Chesapeake Bay: bridge as causeway
straddles the tides
begs my car tires for a kiss
the entryway to all
banished emotions
fathoms as favors
remaindered from the Barnacle King
and Pearl Queen offered
octaves of cello,
three heartbeats stashed
in a seashell stolen
from the Baltic,
a sacrament –
prelude to breaking
the surface.
Gail Gray is the author of three books of poetry. Her latest book, Eye on the Universe is upcoming from Differentia Press. She is the owner of Shadow Archer Press and the editor of Fissure, a magazine of experimental art and writing.
