my father and/or bridges

my father once told me

he said,

“son,

let me tell you

about bridges–

not the ******* Golden Gate,

not Brooklyn–

no,

let me tell you

about the bridges

that pass through the sky,

and sweat with the sun,

and weep

with the rain,

let me tell you

how they shudder

in the bittersweet winds,

hide in the harvest moon.

and i will tell you

about the bridges

floating beneath the waves,

breaching the surface

like the great whales

that swim through their trusses,

i will tell you

how they rise and fall

as the ocean breathes, and

close their eyes

when the water is murky,

how they sing

like sirens

in November.

the bridges through the deserts,

they sink into the dunes,

and i should tell you

how they melt

in the heat, cry out

with thirst,

the way they hold onto the sand,

holding on

for dear life,

holding on

for sad, lonely lives,

i should tell you

why they give up

and crumble

into the deep red earth,

and why

they do not

rise.

i want to tell you

not about the ******* Golden Gate,

not about the Brooklyn–

no, son,

i want to tell you

about the bridges

that bear and bear and bear

until they can’t

bear any more,

and no one sees them

and no one hears them

and no one dares

share their

weight.”

my father once told me about bridges

and now

i tell him back.