The Bridge

The bridge, just there
pulls dark thoughts
of fearful waiting
Into luminous relief.

Its intently lit strength
beacons into unmapped days
devoured by nights
of need
to feel the timbre
of my son’s voice.

Nightly,
I stand in a
bridge sway
of inner mantra
“he’ll call,
he’ll call,
he’ll call”

He - unable to fall
into even drugged sleep
over
ruled
by pain.
We mostly breathe
into the phone; just this sound.

Enough.

Its rhythmic pulse  -
of endless cars
streaming.
A life flow I want
for him
as he fills with presence
enough to speak.

The cable flex of its vertebrae
lights a path
a return
to the possible
of his suppleness.

And yet rigid
with willful intention
this upright monument
this mighty achievement
man-made
like the titanium brace
he awaits
if ever
to sit upright.

This night;
I turn
bridged with a
courage he has and needs.
To a vibrating cell; for now
he’s alive in my hand.

I want to be a good storyteller.
The bullet that entered my son’s body opened
a passageway in me out of which poured writing.
A gift. Like the survival of my son.
I want to make the best of both.