I.
Meanwhile the bridge is falling
out from beneath me
while a rabbit narrowly skirts my tires:
a fast reflex to survive. And I hold
my breath in the throb of my lungs, white-knuckle
the steering wheel in order to remain alive, shaking
high above the roars of a gushing river.
I notice there’s no moon tonight.
II.
Dear Scott, The lightness of falling flutters in my stomach,
and I silently thank the song of your voice in my radio,
for all the words you’ve given me—salvation
from long and violent storms in my head,
combatting hurricane-strength winds
that demolish and scatter everything,
winds that you couldn’t survive, I guess.
Dear Scott, I wish you were still alive.
I found you too late,
and I wish you were here to answer me.
Dear Scott, I need to hear your voice not filtered
through six feet of dirt and polluted river water.
III.
All along I’ve wondered why I shouldn’t give up
my collection of books and shreds of pencil eraser
for a life of waitressing the breakfast rush,
collecting their stories and crumpled dollar bills
instead of my own. I can keep them safe
in my maple syrup stained apron,
tangled in stands of my bacon grease hair.
I don’t want to regurgitate my emotions on paper anymore.
I think it’s like my phobia of throwing up.
IV.
Let me ask a question: why
is it that when I finally let the truth loose,
I want to take it all back?