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The hanging bridge

It was carnival season and the town
gradually transformed itself
becoming grotesque and queer
and emotionally exhausting

Determined to move forward
Billy and me walk hand in hand
he nursing along a quart of malt liquor
and me drawing on Virginia Slims

By the time we reached the bridge
they had just finished
reenacting a past less distant than
most locals care to admit

Uncertain how I could possibly hold
back the tears
I tell Billy what they did to my people
is unforgettable
unforgivable

Without saying a word
he squeezes my hand tighter
draws me nearer as the
Chickasawhay River shamelessly
snakes by directly below our feet



april two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved