Sinking

Standard

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I never jumped off the bridge,
even when all my friends did.
The real bridge
hanging darkly
over the St. Croix.
It wasn’t the height
that stopped me
as much as the fear
of what floated below
the murk
of root beer surface:
deadheads,
and boots,
tangled net,
limbs or
lost child.

You always jump,
even when you see
the swirl
of fishing line
sharp
with barbed hook
passing just under
your dangling feet.
Still,
you push off
and fall free in abandon.
Brave or foolish?
Another lost child.


April 8, 2014
Julie Ayers
NaPoWriMo Day 8

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