Hobble Creek Review
| Kate Hanson |
Riverwalk
The mile-long path along the Merrimack
ends at the Aiken Street Bridge.
He tells me about his drinking
problem, the prostitute,
his unhappy marriage.
A stickler for facts, he informs me
this is the longest lenticular
truss bridge remaining in the United States.
I tell him I can sometimes still see Tom
hanging from the cast iron.
June, on the Aiken Street Bridge
In some hour of June I imagine
the hugeness of the night. Wild lines
of trees, ash ridden doorways,
and somewhere behind
the cool thickness of brick
he simply jumped—
veins swelling a river of black
poisons, his final hours written in water.
In the city things continued
to breathe, yellow marigolds
dripped with dew, and I imagine
clusters of foam collected
like a blanket just below him.
We rarely speak of him now.
The Merrimack
The moon is nothing
more than a clump of broken yellow,
the same moon that lights the silver
on the arching low branch, the fire
in my belly. You are home to me,
and I follow you with sloppy knees. Bare feet
pay no heed to the slimy bank, the bicycle
corroding, and to my surprise, your sleeves
make no ripples in the water.
The mile-long path along the Merrimack
ends at the Aiken Street Bridge.
He tells me about his drinking
problem, the prostitute,
his unhappy marriage.
A stickler for facts, he informs me
this is the longest lenticular
truss bridge remaining in the United States.
I tell him I can sometimes still see Tom
hanging from the cast iron.
June, on the Aiken Street Bridge
In some hour of June I imagine
the hugeness of the night. Wild lines
of trees, ash ridden doorways,
and somewhere behind
the cool thickness of brick
he simply jumped—
veins swelling a river of black
poisons, his final hours written in water.
In the city things continued
to breathe, yellow marigolds
dripped with dew, and I imagine
clusters of foam collected
like a blanket just below him.
We rarely speak of him now.
The Merrimack
The moon is nothing
more than a clump of broken yellow,
the same moon that lights the silver
on the arching low branch, the fire
in my belly. You are home to me,
and I follow you with sloppy knees. Bare feet
pay no heed to the slimy bank, the bicycle
corroding, and to my surprise, your sleeves
make no ripples in the water.
Kate Hanson received her MFA in Poetry at Bennington College,
Vermont. Her most recent poetry has appeared in Pebble Lake Review
and Where the Road Begins: Anthology. She lives in Lowell,
Massachusetts.
Vermont. Her most recent poetry has appeared in Pebble Lake Review
and Where the Road Begins: Anthology. She lives in Lowell,
Massachusetts.
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