The Bridge That Chews Its Own Cables
written by: Gloria Ogo
We built it from
Grandaddy’s railroad pension check
The choir’s stolen vibrato
Every “you don’t talk right”
ever swallowed in teachers’ lounges
Its suspension sings in a key
that cracks fillings.
(You’ll know you’re halfway across
when your shadow starts peeling off
like a too-tight stocking—
don’t worry, the river below
collects what the bridge discards.)
On Tuesdays it births pigeons
with newspaper clippings for feathers.
By Friday they dissolve into
Used syringe caps
The opening chords of Redemption Song
Your first kiss’s nervous sweat
still clinging to the air
The construction crew quit in ’89
when their hammers kept striking
the same patch of rust
that moaned “not yet”
in their grandmothers’ voices.
Now we pay the toll
in other ways:
A molar (preferably gold-filled)
The middle verse of a spiritual
you only remember in dreams
That sharp intake of breath
when the cop car lights flash
(Pro tip: If your knees lock
at the third girder,
spit three times
and name all your dead
in reverse chronological order—
the bridge likes its ghosts
properly introduced.)
Last winter it ate a whole city bus
just to teach us the word “vanished”
in a language made of:
Shattered safety glass
The ozone tang of fear
The particular purple
of a fresh bruise blooming
We keep crossing anyway.
Our footsteps sprout
switchblades and sweetgum balls.
The bridge sways like a drunk uncle
full of apologies and old warrants.
Some say it’s growing
a new ramp due west—
one that leads straight
into the mouth of tomorrow.
I say let it.
Whatever emerges
will at least be ours.
- The Bridge That Chews Its Own Cables - August 23, 2025
- The Road That Drinks Our Shadows - May 14, 2025
