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
Your poetry amazes me everytime
Thank you very much, Lara, I’m thrilled you think so!
Love this
Thank you, Chrissy.