MOST (the bridge)

Susan Smith Nash

The rain soaked my left shoulder

with a cold, creaky pain

that cool, wet summer in St. Petersburg –

my first night,

windows propped open,

sun and moon competing for space behind

clouds breeding thunder –

the breeze drizzly and crisp

and a very slippery bridge across the canal.

I fell asleep on my Russian dictionary;

it creased my arm just above my elbow –

I dreamed of roller-blading down wet streets my son –

through one screenless window

through another across the way –

glass wavy with siege,

transparent with exigency;

seeing more clearly than before

a man, face crusted over with dried blood

slumped on the steps to the canal;

gold winged gryphons chewing a chain

holding a bridge,

destination implied –

or passage, at least.

Dreaming, I am that man.

Did I jump? Did I fail to fly?

Pain settles into my shoulder

like a paranoid friend

my wings ripped out by Plato himself

halting my ascent through thunder and raindrops,

holding me to the vast celestial mirror –

an image, slumped on bloodstained steps

the concrete easing my broken back,

and an errant Russian dictionary

flapping against my back

like wings.