PDA

 

My love is anchored to the ground

with steel rods;

her skins maintained

rust-free but heavy

with metals;

her tentacles unwrapping themselves invisibly and stretching

out for me. I come to her.

 

She is girders and grids and grates.

She is hard mesh, polished steel, reinforced concrete.

She is all limbs,

from one side of the river

to the other.

 

My love is never empty of people.

When I kiss her I try

to forget the cameras

installed to spy on jumpers;

to show families;

to identify bodies.

She tells me, she cries

her freshwater tears for all those lost.

 

At night I stuff my nose against

the urine-soaked graffiti and beaten dogs,

the shopping cart men, abandoned stashes,

downstream sludge. I come with flimsy

trenchcoat and a blanket against the damp.

I am naked against the water lights.

I am here, my love, I know you

feel me; I feel

your immensity; I am cold;

my tongue senses salt, minerals, on dirty concrete;

palms scraped on rough patches, pelvic bones,

redder than carpet burn; on my knees, filthy;

I am whispering to you: where are the cameras now?

I am not ashamed.