Page 42 - The Bridge Vol 17_pgs

The Bridge

i’ve never seen the face of god
but i’ve heard her voice
beckon between the blades
of grass on a wave of land,
a wave the most brilliant green,
i hear her.

i’ve heard her in stories
that have been told for
many thousand years:
a queen buried
standing up,
a giant who forged
a bridge of stone, i hear her.

i hear her song echo
in darkened alleys,
diaspora carried up from
the cobblestones,
reaching up from
elizabeth brady the bogs
that end life,
sustain life,
are life,
i hear her.

i hear her in the melody,
spinning in circles breathlessly.
i hear her in the ceaseless beat,
steady drumming and stamping of feet,
i hear her.

she howls with hunger,
she cries with death,
i heard her.

she does not command.
she does not encroach.
she whispers,
she sings,
“at last! you’re home.”

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