I stand on the bridge in Henley St & rehearse the words.

Back home, I take your hands in mine,

comb the sadness that has rubbed off you, mine.

Twilight, torn, dirty twinkling.

I sit close to you on the bed, your naked body

in the room’s crescent glow, a promise.

I say: what in the world have I done to deserve you?

I pick the tablets off my tongue & lay it at our feet.

I have broken all the commandments. I have walked

into rooms searching the remnants of my vows.

When the moon slouches outside our window

like a camel at the edge of Sahara, I hear your face.

I see your voice. I push against the air between us,

its ghosts heavy with our breaths. I do not know

how to be a good man, Lucia. The words splash

across my mind. Instead I say: I am trying, Lucia,

to be a good man—a good son, a good lover,

a good teacher. I am trying to build a bridge

that is held by the hands of desire. You speak:

your words music, your voice prayer, your eyes doves.

You say, I love you —how don’t you see that?

Later that night, I have a dream where the bridges

are falling into a burning ocean. I say a prayer that

starts with your name, Lucia, & ends with it. In that dream,

I stand at the edge of the world. I hold a flower to you.

Behind me, the ashes speak the dialect of debris.