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,
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.