Kingsbridge, The Bronx

This is different. This is
personal. This is my die
hard era. That step
street terrace dares me 

to climb away
from those subway tracks,
exposed for miles, to identify
a graffiti memory I believed

they had erased
with the old #1 cars.
New Jersey’s Palisades spill
onto the other side where Wave 

Hill becomes more than a label
on a Google map. How many women drink
their own tears
when they reach 

this far north? When they think of Redbirds
and that combat steel skin? I am
not alone—but seeking solitude’s prayers
for grace. Limestone retaining walls 

and brownstone facades
hold in echoes of their Portland,
Connecticut, quarry
origins.  I swam in it 

and thought I would drown
in that unfathomable thirst. 

Whoever rescued me then
could need some of that now. I wouldn’t know. 

Mine has become a visitor’s ascent.
I dwell in possibility’s prairie
now, its river a street lined with myth and mud
and messages I’m eager to decode.

4 thoughts on “Kingsbridge, The Bronx

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