4.28.15

Bridge poem. True story.  Still don't like big bridges.

Vertigo

It was on the I-24 bridge

over the Ohio.  I shot out

of the trees on the Illinois side,

revved the engine into the sky,

bridge beckoning, white curved girders soaring,

and I looked down.  Then it hit—

all that empty space,

no safety cushion, only the spinning tires

and the bridge and 200 feet of nothing

between me and the Ohio, dirty and brown. 

My head went floating,

my palms sweaty, the car suddenly

too enclosed, the sky too close, no ropes

to grab, my shirt sticky on my back,

breath not enough.  I cracked a window

and the emptiness rushed in.  The guardrail

wouldn’t keep me from flying off—

gravity always wins, the car a red missile

poised to drop, the interstate narrowing.

 I kept my eyes

on the opposite bank, Kentucky

and mortality speeding toward me.