Nothing
burns the bridge, and then it burns.
- Terese Svoboda
Once you cross, as you must,
you cannot go back. There is nothing
to retrieve: when the bridge catches fire,
leave it all. Your hair, your hands
may be lit; if you take photographs
into your arms, they too will burn.
You can see the lights of the city
you left behind, but in miniature
from the distance, a diorama.
When the bridge falls, the smoke
of its scaffolding hangs in the air,
burning our eyes. This is architecture
in the new world: the mere shadow
of structure, the suspension bridge
refusing to suspend. To be light
enough to cross, you must be less
of yourself. Remove everything
down to your wristwatch.
Whittle yourself to transparency.
Cross the bridge as it burns, sparks
in the wisps of your hair, and don't
look back. It is already turning
to smoke. Soon it will not hold you.
© 2005 Maggie Smith
is the author of the poetry collections Lamp of the Body (Red Hen Press, 2005), winner of the 2003 Benjamin Saltman Award; and Nesting Dolls (Pudding House, 2005), winner of the 2004 Pudding House National Chapbook Competiton. Her poems have appeared in The Iowa Review, Indiana Review, Florida Review, Prairie Schooner, Swink, Crab Orchard Review, Gulf Coast, Passages North, and other journals. She has received two Academy of American Poets Prizes and an Individual Artist Fellowship from the Ohio Arts Council. She lives in Columbus, Ohio.
