Meet Me at the Bridge

Meet Me at the Bridge

(“As they came from their mother’s womb, so they shall go again, naked as they came.” Ecclesiastes 5:14a)

There must be a refuge where I can say the things
that drill holes in my waiting, the same things
that trouble the kites chained down by twine. There
must be
a door I can knock on,
a pair of eyes behind it,
a shaking narrative just like mine
that won’t hold my words any longer than
it takes for me to say them.
Then they won’t be surprised when
I say them again on the front porch leaning
into the wind.

Meet me on the bridge,
the one where the ducks wait for bread.
Listen to my naked soul. I’m tired of clothing
every song behind familiar melodies,
molding every word so there can be no
misinterpretation. Or being obtuse enough that
I hide
the meaning behind images of blue mountains,
black seas, fireplace visions, or hyper-spirituality.

I want to want less, like everyone I seem to know.
But the ache expresses more, and I wonder if we all
are holding back because
we fear the eyes that would dice us roughly into
pellets scattered across the floor.

Meet me at the bar, the one that closes early.
Meet me there after last call; I know the owner.
Wear what you would have worn when you were
alone and performed for no one.
I’ll wear a hat because my hair has retreated long ago.

I’m not sure I know who I am
apart from another heart who reflects my darkest moments
and shares the same with me. Days go by without words,
weeks without the one exhale to
wrap it under a breezy sky.