What’s beyond the two lights at the edge
of the bay bridge tunnel blinking
out of turn, one a bit more butch
than the other; the wolf’s bridge howls
and I turn up Formation. It doesn’t matter
if I’m singing or not, or just the wise hum
of the road leveling out as the bridge crests
a hump, the steel ringing, buzzing, gnashing
its teeth together as tight as it can. There is only one way,
having to ride a rainbow of steel to the swamps
below. I must have been eight or so packed
in a beat-up grocery getter coming to a stop
at the top of the bridge’s back. Both lanes
had stopped. My mother got out
and Pasty got out and the kids crawled
up to see what was what, another station wagon
like Pastsy’s but not, collapsed into the back
of an ice truck. A kid cried out. I could not say
what or to whom, the kid screaming
outside, knees torn, eyes two black-eyed susans
falling apart in a sunny hailstorm. Everyone turned
scared, Jenny held her sister’s hand, my brother
looked out the window at the growing crowd
of drivers who left their vehicles to see. The bridge
descends into a straight shot of blue sky. Tall
clouds. We didn’t speak of it, my mother read
the story in the paper at breakfast the next day.
A mother died, children orphaned. Pain
is a door. Open it and step inside as long as you like,
the crone will let you by the fire or the well,
whichever you choose. Doors close all the time.
Sometimes one opens on a bridge, driving a car,
chanting a new name, singing the praise of a body
the way a body can sing along with whatever joy comes
from beyond the lights blinking at the end of the bridge
okay, okay, ladies, now let’s get in formation.
