Erika Luckert
Standing at the brink
of the Highlevel Bridge, I do not think
of jumping, or I do, because you
have already done that:
wild leap into the helium breath
of a swelling plastic bag.
(I used to squeeze the neck
of a party balloon so it screamed
as the air left.)
There's a river down below.
You took me, on my birthday,
to its banks, folded paper
cranes to set adrift.
They swam and we
walked home through the mud.
Your dust has grown so thin
it may not even reach
the river.
There is no night,
just the blazing light of cars
that pass again.