8 February, 2024
Identity Poem (Take 2)
Little by little, the Chesapeake Bay Bridge
gives itself back to ocean storms;
c o n c r e t e and s t e e l dust blue crabs
and oysters in the depths;
some people pay to be driven across,
shudder in their own passenger seats.
There’s harder things to be scared of
than a bridge, like seahorses
or pine trees,
but then there’s reflections:
each wrinkle a desert road,
lost reception,
water gone;
shadows living in skin;
the body’s flaps and folds.