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KMA Sullivan

Witness

 

Bridges should be watched. A slip

of design and steel plates fight themselves.

They ripple in the wind, break into pieces,

drown their bits in Puget Sound

on camera as if on cue.

 

I see a friend stare at his hands

made pink from scalding. Persistent voices

call for a burning after he has touched

the kitchen trash, a gas nozzle,

yesterday’s jeans.

 

In February my sister moves, throws

her daughter and a few bags in the car,

leaves the rest. She travels to Seattle, Asheville,

Boulder, New South Wales so that her mind

might begin again.

 

My oldest son glistens on football field and wrestling mat,

his focus aligned and humming. But his thoughts, trained

by early abandonment, twist and pull. His breaking

will come from the inside and, like the camera man

on the far side of the bridge, all I can do is watch.

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