I Was First Afraid of Bridges

Bob Comenole, 1992

I was first afraid
             of bridges, not over
to cross—nor from even
             to fall: veteran of
dives along Singers-Camp,
             off the Coole River Bridge
Batlock’s, and Old Flood Post.

An elevated shinny
             on a peeling trestle: and
then, my body, like a
             waterbug cleaving upside
down beneath some bench or arch,
             releases itself as if
a drip, falling, swanning
             backward, eyes moving under
to read the water.

No, I was afraid of
             bridges:  the sight, the thought: shrunk
by thoughts of bridges, because
             I could imagine myself
there, between two spars, body
             like an X—or with the head—
a star; or there, between two
             cables, pending, like a sailor
slung in rigging: because I
             could imagine myself there,
high, without a deck, sea gone.