On the bridge, he sips her breath,
seals her back, is of her shape
what she is not. I am already that
which they abhor – my unintentioned
place in their sun, intrusive. If
those waters could keep their gaze,
I’d slip into shadow, retrace my
own false steps, turn up elsewhere –
though when I first began, this path
was mine. They notice me – and
part. Half a step beyond, I am
tempted by their love to try again.
© Diane Beaty