Bridge
A poem
You took me to the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge on the day we bought books
I took photographs with my large zoom lens down into the canyon, bracing myself against the dazzling vertigo
In every direction the expansive canyon drop breaks wider with rocks that feel sharp even at a distance
Evolution must have made the brain lean away from a fall that far, knowing at the same time that no fall is coming
The anticipation of what could happen is too much; it is good to go with someone whose hand is nearby
We crossed from one side to the other, railing to railing, as the water below flowed further away, a dripping blue trickle
You kept walking away as I stopped, entranced and furrowed in the wind, speechless; you had been to the bridge before
Of all the pictures I took, the one I most wanted to keep was a scrawl on a suicide prevention payphone that said You’re not alone
The graffiti of surely former lovers was everywhere, but the plea to live held me in one spot.
That night I accidentally deleted all the photos from the day.
When we got back, I asked you for your bridge pictures, but you did not send them.
We do not speak now that you realized you do not love me.
When you drove past Chimayo, and you would not stop, I think I knew.
