MD Kerr

Day 5: A moment on the bridge


Text of the poem

I touched the bridge. A moment, looking down,
canal expanding, olive water, light
submerging through its depths, creating space
beneath the ripples one concentric point
(a leaf that fell), around, beneath at last.
I breathed. Relaxed. I opened up, in fine

delight and touched the bridge. Its grain was fine
beneath its paint beneath my palms. The down
of blossoms fell. I thought, if nows the last
occasion we can come here, drink the light
as deep as eels can swim and hold this point
in time an axis: I may spin; this space

will still be here and while I have this space
inside me, greening gold, then Ill be fine.
I gripped the bridge. You raised your hand to point
another leaf? I thought then looking down,
I saw what I had done. My head grew light.
Id touched the bridge. Id moulded, like a last,

my palms around its surface. All the last
eleven days of care, the six-foot space
from every human soul, the cuffs gone light
with bleach-spots, stares at air in fear o ffine
dispersing spray and I had let us down.
Were one, in this. One body. Thats the point

of household rules. Our graphs a single point:
in separate skin, our cells combine. The last
few weeks, Ive preached the risk, Ive dressed you down
for shaking hands, not washing hands, the space
the neighbour didnt keep Are all our fine
attempts undone? I gripped the bridge. The light

distracted me. You keep the moment light:
Well still hold hands. Well wash at home. You point
the obvious out: Dont touch your face. Its fine.
Your palm against my palm. Is this the last
weekend outside? Or last of health? Will space
unpeel its stars for us? You scratch the down

of growing beard. The fear lights up. It lasts
on hair, Im pointing out. We have no space
between us: well both be fine, or all fall down.

Thanks to Robert Lee Brewer at the Writers' Digest for the prompt to write about a moment and The Writers' Greenhouse for the prompt to write a sestina.

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