Nancy L. Meyer

Fraying Bridge

Rope twisted and hairy        on this fraying bridge
I don’t trust          even my first step—

12 years, no word, no reason         a canyon between us
             me     your only son

             Today—your email:

             —even if a gale rocks the bridge
if we dangle mid-air—here, grab

            —no calls you demand—
my hand, the rough rail.

                             — this most fragile
of conversations.               You say not

father to son             only as equals.

                                         (How can I not be your son?)