Anna Enquist

OF WATER

Towering tall and over me, the bridge
grabs into the grass with hard fingers.
Vehicles slide back and forth, a child
with flowers, a roaring fanfare.

I wait. They’ll bow in my direction,
bent with madness and malady, hearing in the waves’ slap
comfort from a hundred mothers. I’m willing;
I take position, surround the new piles.

When this bridge is overgrown and gone
I’ll still be beating stones. O cloudy sky,
see yourself reflected in my flesh. I’ve let myself
be led, be spanned, be beaten.