Poem - I Visited the Bridge of your Ghost

Today, I came to visit the bridge of your ghost
like a monument built over mortality
and the weeds and the flowers
grow below the solid line, like capsized dreams.
And I came to the water’s edge
where they left you face down
in the mud,
drowned and clubbed to death.

When I was down there
the groundskeeper came by,
to say a mother duck
laid her eggs just inches from where
they left your life behind
for less than a song.
Underneath the wooden bridge—
what the hell went wrong, all graffiti
skulls and half-sprayed words
under there, on the cement wall
pylon beside the place
where they kicked and you crawled— 
I sing to you.

I sing to you
a lullaby—sense of senselessness
fills up in hollow blue hue questioning why,
why you?
Under a noisy wooden bridge
planks and beams shudder and quake,
above my head, rush-hour retreads, snakes

I take digital vigil snaps
of your beautiful imaginary body,
invisible outline wraps
around the tide here still
like a flower, a water flower
where you laid to rest
your final breath, and I can hear you
here, beg for mercy
I can hear you here
clear as spiritual bells
ring in a bowl.
Past midnight, a meteorite,
you write prayers across the sky.

I want you to know, I sing to you
in praise, and I hope you might hear me
as the night heard you cry,
through the wooden bridge
above, like a racket, rattle dust overhead.
Was it heaven you thought you heard
above you, like a calling
overhead circling like vulture-angels’ tell-tale
tattle, and the herring in the water still
and the heron’s priested shore,
and the gates open above the bridge
to the other side
where you might live again?
Gates where you might live again
in your teenaged body like a long note
of stolen youth and eyes of naked wonder,
body unlocked to love
and all the births you might’ve had.
The streets grow quiet
and the ducks brood on their eggs
and all that remains of life
is death and memory and ghosts and my song
still humming along—

Today, I came to visit the bridge of your ghost
where people cross everyday
on their way in and out of their lives
en route over bones, sticks and stones
cockle shells, easy ivy over.
The sacrifice of a flower
and a heron and a weed and a clam
and a blackberry bush, and a final hour.
Crow calls to me
and I try to understand
without meaning.

Reason is a name on a gravestone
I once saw. Light breaks
and when does hatred rest—
and the wash of excitement and the rush of relief
and the disbelief
that they actually killed you
with sticks and stones,
and they did break your teenaged bones
and their names will always hurt me.

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