Crossing the Straits of Mackinac

People say men died by falling
deep inside the towers of the
bridge. Morbid, maybe, for a
child, but nevermind; I’ve always
wondered, did they lie? Were there
men who slipped and fell into the

Some days, windy days
when no one should be driving,
you can hear a whistle cutting
through the cables. You can see
the whole thing swaying. You can
hear their voices calling from the

But mostly, when I ride across the
chasm, I am taken by a sense of
flight; of floating to the heavens
on a thread of steel that cannot
know my name, or my child, or
my lies, the whole thing swaying,
morbid, cutting deep inside.


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