During
the day a bridge is a fishbone caught in the
throat, a beached whale, and often in the sun
the
froth of tidewaters,
a
disappearing act, a glitch buried in the deep sludge- mud of
our nerves. By night
it’s a natural type of fire, the
anemone glow of headlights shift
inside their constellations. We hold our breath. We tuck
the salt air into our pockets and wrap scarves
of wind around our necks.
[2]
Vision is
such a casual ballet. Maybe
you never thought the
earth could be this flexible. It has always felt flat. But
those sodium lights are really meant to woo the
darkness. They are the white flags of surrender. There is
a bridge in China. At least once a week, someone
throws himself off of it. That’s
almost enough to set your watch by. Do the
dead in the Yangtze act as mediators between
the two shores? Do you know anyone at the
bottom of this river we can depend on to level
the playing field? Each map
has its own scale. When we
count the distance of lightning your
seconds are longer than mine. I’ll be honest when I
lie. I don’t know your name. You are a
smaller version of me.
61 The Paris-American
Matthew Zingg's poetry has appeared in The Madison Review, The Awl, Muzzle, Blackbird and Opium Magazine, among others. His criticisms can be read in The Rumpus and forthcoming in The American Reader. Zingg received his MFA from Adelphi University and lives in Brooklyn. Photo was taken by Jillian Brall.
