Crybaby Bridge
A forlorn howl unspooled
across the field. There was no movement —
a reminder that some dangers make themselves known,
but remain unseen. We sought safety
on the porch & sat on milk pails
brimming with moonlight. We were too hot to go inside
& too young to fall asleep.
We swapped legends about the haunting,
& worked up the courage to grab the keys.
No streetlights on country roads,
just high beams sweeping rows of corn
& reflecting the eyes of deer. It was after midnight
on Crybaby Bridge. We parked
in the ditch, waded through weeds to the water’s edge.
Shhh… We listened for wailing,
waited for the woman in a glowing veil to surface
in the ripples. That night,
cousin Janie was the only one to walk into the creek.
From shore, I watched her shadow drift
downstream. A ghost —
save for the way her body blocked the stars
as she moved between the trestles
& disappeared.
Crybaby Bridge was originally published by Sky Island Journal.
Plum
More of a slippage than a hiss —
like one wet leaf cleaving from another.
Strip. After. Strip.
Skinning a plum with your teeth
is to be equally resigned to sound
and patience. The peel
is an endless turning.
Remnant warmth,
where it rested in your palm is the only landmark.
The bruise is a palimpsest of your thumb
pressing. Its softness.
rises up around your teeth. Snapping
as its membrane breaks —
more of a felt thing than a noise. Inside
the puncture, juice wells. This is how the body gives in
to violence. Strip. After. Strip.
Raw flesh conjures
a color we cannot name. Dwindling Fire. Predawn Glow.
Kaleidoscope Turning.
Bite. After. Bite.
Plum was originally published by Sky Island Journal.
Night Vision
Slinging one leg over the sill, I stumble
the gravel lane —
a silver ribbon, where the full moon
wraps itself along the earth.
His car is waiting behind the birch,
too far for the crunch of tires to hitch home on the wind.
We drive to Whitewater Gorge Park,
stow the Chevy behind the auction house down the road
then finish the way on foot. The air is amphibious,
our skin slickens in knee high weeds.
We do not carry flashlights. There are no visitors allowed
at night. There are no visitors
to stand in our way as we lay down on the suspension bridge,
a heaving footpath across the river.
Barely wide enough to lay side by side,
we search for Draco and Libra, listen to boulder-combed
water flowing between the deeper pools below.
Pike gaze up, where the surface is still.
Across the planks of the bridge, our flesh is no more
than a starless patch of their sky
and the gaps between stars are no more than our eyes’
failure to see what’s really there.
We didn’t hop the gate after dark
because the rules didn’t apply.
We snuck in out of fear of being seen
during daylight. Not by others, but by ourselves.
Night Vision was originally published at Sky Island Journal.