Woe-Bear and I Cross Every Suspension Bridge We Can Name Until We Reach One We Can’t

Woe-Bear-I-was-left-alone-with
—oversized head custom-made to fit
such enormous sadness—puts his head on my lap,
his body stoked with cotton wool and folk song,
left ear mangled from that time he was suspended
above the waste disposal. His screams closed-captioned
so parents can’t read them. Later claimed the let go
was accidental.

From one side to the next we pass bridges
we know, until we arrive at one we can’t name.
Woe-Bear looks down and says, Not every truth lies
at the bottom of the river, I tell Woe-Bear-
I-was-left-alone-with that I love him.

Hand in hand we walk to the middle,
the place of wild swaying, the weakest
point of the bridge’s relationship with either side
of the expanse. The velvet flap that covers
his Woe-Bear heart opens like a floppy furnace door.
It might fall out, plummet. I adore you, he says.
I barely hear his words above the rushing water
and keep my flap cough-tight shut.

We hold so close as I speak to the towers,
the steel cables, the rattle-bridge deck groaning
in a wind that grips us with all the sounds of collapse.

Read more from Issue 22.2.