For a little over a year, I crossed
the river twice

a day. East to west. West to east. Or,
more precisely

northeast to southwest—
you get the idea.

When I say
The River
with a capital T, capital R,

I believe you know
which one. When I say

The City, capital
T, capital C,
you know.

Thousands of miles
east. Those daily

crossings were loaded
with a weight of sadness

I denied. A denial
I refused to skip

across the surface
of the water
because I never learned

how. People tried
to teach me. I couldn’t get

the hang of it. Never trusted
myself with a flat, cold
stone in my hand.

The way I don’t trust
myself behind the wheel. So by bus,

by bike, or by foot
I would make it

to the other side. Was I
safe? Did I know my world

would become
visibly cracked, thickened,
unskippable soon?

And The City
its own poem

packed with shimmering
smooth surprise

to be opened gently
as a paper fan.

“Living it up
at the Hotel
California” tortures her
with gray
memories. She’ll blame

it on the antihistamines.
The way coffee appears
in that translucent cobalt
blue mug. The way
each word laid down

suddenly looks foreign
to her eye. Backwards
is an unwanted side-to-side
motion she has no rudder
to stabilize.

She doesn’t purchase
the wobble
board. Gets no purchase
behind the joke.
Hypochondria never

took off
so gracefully. Never
mind the landing.

When the sequence
of events leading to your NDE

gets fuzzy,
you may think

you are cured. A sore
arch and bruised

thigh don’t need to sound
off uninterruptible alarms

when you know
their origins. Never mind yours.

His. Ours. Endings.
Just the facts.