Gay Boys and the Bridges Who Love Them
it is not the fall, exactly. not the crash either, the swallow,
the life flashing backwards behind the dark screen of the eyes,
the water rising up to meet you.
no. it is not what drove your body here like a stolen car.
why you abandoned it on this unreasonable ledge. not why
you dove in, salt wind singing its perfect punctuation.
it is not the city stretching out before you waving
its startled steel hands. it is not the last man who turned
you down, or turned you out, or turned the camera on.
it is not the six seconds between here and impact,
though each is its own poem. it is not how the body
overflows like a damned river into its ocean,
the shopping mall of chemicals doing their patient
and awful sorting. not the suit of clothing you decided
to die in, the wrinkled cotton jacket and its wet lineage.
the neck tie and its perfect knot. it’s not even the difference
between being pushed and choosing to leave.
no. it is the wreckage
spilling from the wreckage.
it is the light
throwing its last shade.
