Crossing the Three-Rope Bridge
written in the tenth year
of my mother’s death
of my mother’s death
Today it stormed. The clouds were flame-base blue and smoldered close to the treetops. Lightning double blinked. Ten years have passed, and not like that. By dusk the rain had ceased, the birds, giddy with worm-lust, sang to the softened earth. I tried to sleep but thought of the bridge at camp: three ropes above a rushing creek, my turn to cross, you on the bank wringing your hands. I walked, heel toe, heel toe—a fish the gleam on a rock below, its wound a swirl of red. The world forgave you your attempts, but I held out. And when my ankle slipped, the whole sky gasped. You raised your arms as if to heaven. The birds start up again. It’s been forever.