Bridge

When I miss you,

I think of Brooklyn Bridge.

There, our glories lived

along the water’s edge,

where Walt Whitman wrote

of thousands before us

and thousands to come.

But we were there, bestowing

thousands of kisses.

•

When I miss you,

I recall simple kitchen joys,

all we needed to be our best:

I was your imperfect doll,

miming a salsa’s steps, tossed

when my triumph is yours;

found the lightness of heaven

on your shoulders; I taste

shimmering red Hibiscus tea,

too hot to drink; plucked

marshmallow threads

from flushed cheeks; I hear

Lorca reverberate

in your chest’s sighs, us

duetting piano-tinkled

Cuban lullabies, to sleep

and awaken with your hand

holding mine

•

When I miss you,

I lie in the dark, cuticles torn,

grasping for you in dreams, forlorn.

like over-steeped and bitter tea,

I remember

the unsolvable problem you gave me:

a city with seven bridges, when

to cross, we needed

only one