The Disappointed Bridge

Talk ran into twilight, then stopped.
A hidden charm was taking shape
above branches and power lines,
warding off selfless sleep and leaving me
to brood on a bolus
of hope and pain. Alcohol helped,
and rubbing.

Each drumbeat and flower
seemed a suggestion that if not
taken lightly could lead to a permanent
lifestyle change: a journey to Rome,
or learning jujitsu.

When constellations showed their arms
in the east, I was alone
with thirty past refractions of myself,
the best years of my life, each
whispering its encouragement
or reproach. It was like relaxing in a Jacuzzi full
of blood. In a riot of tears,
I wished a photographer would shoot me
and mail you proof of my grief.

Not that I had your address—when I searched
the Web I discovered you
were a French starlet
from the eighties. I watched cones
of headlamps cross the lawn
and imagined a few close-ups: eyes
glassy with abandon, lips
moist and ready, each hair in its place
in black and white half-light.

My tumbler was sweating.

It was time to go inside again.

Chris Hosea is a graduate of Harvard College and received his M.F.A. in Poetry at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. He also studied at the Krishnamurti School in Varanasi, India. His poems have appeared in LIT, The Denver Quarterly, The Iowa Review, The Harvard Review, Swerve, VOLT, Sunday Morning, New Voices, Article, The Literary Review, and elsewhere. He has performed his poetry at Reading between A and B, Speakeasy, Ear Inn, Earshot, Pete’s Candy Store, The Stain Bar, and Amherst Books among others. He lives in Brooklyn.