My mother used to tremble every time
we crossed the Potomac, the Delaware, every
river on the road North. Her body tightening
into a steel beam, as if it alone could hold
the bridge in place, the car afloat. She taught me
never to trust what was underneath you, to drive
right toward the liquor store near the motel, where
she’d melt the steel back to liquid, to watery
sleep. Every trip a chance to die again across
a bridge, and every breeze a threat. Even now,
I hate the feel of a ceiling fan, an open window,
anything that might blow me off course. Still,
my body turns to statue at this majestic gesture
of two roads across the water, the light glistening
to let me know I’ve left behind the closed doors
and am headed toward a city of life – I stay my course.
I imagine strongmen from the circus holding each
pylon in place and the fish swimming below me
whispering and feathering out knowing that they
have nothing to be afraid of anymore.
I want no part of their world, nor they, mine.
The Causeway
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