he asked what i was and i told him:

say there are two points and there’s like a river between them usually 

but point a is girls and point b is boys then there is a bridge sort of 

over the river between the points and i am on the bridge and sort of

walk along it and i mean really we’re all on that bridge the points 

don’t actually exist or rather the river doesn’t really exist and i mean 

sort of really I AM THE BRIDGE if that makes sense,

but he had stopped listening before i opened my mouth,

and the river was real. the water had opened its mouth, too,

and sat patiently below ready to devour all imperfection—

any flawed metaphors or human beings

which is to say, all human beings, and to say all metaphors—

i found a bridge and 

scrawled on the railing, “jump, faggot”

the script still warm, still fresh as blood,

the pen heated in a loving sweaty palm somewhere long forgotten,

i asked the bridge how high?

say point a is my mouth

and point b is your mouth

let’s say some bridges are burnt beyond repair.

the river is kind

of hot, in fact it’s on fire,

river phoenix overdosed at 23,

he dripped from a bridge of speed and flew away. 

say points a and b are both underwater

say i am the bridge and the bridge is an island

say the oceans are rising

say oceans of bile are rising in the throats of the children

say we are all children and say we are all the ocean

and this is why we kiss on the mouth—to taste the salt,

to spit bile in another body.

the river folds like blue origami over stone and bridge and fag alike.

nobody ever asked me what i was

but i answer all the same—

i’m no bridge: i am a skipping stone

i am wind chill i am erosion i’m a fucking wormhole

i’m st peter walking on water i’m st peter drowning.