Bridge Called Water

I wrote hard
on paper
 
at the bottom
of a pool
 
near a canyon
where the stars
 
slid onto their bellies
like fish
 
I wrote:
 
     	…
 
I went through
the mountain
 
through the leaves
of La Puente
 
to see the moon
but it was too late
 
too long ago
to walk on glass.
 
    	…
 
Near those years
when the house fell on me
 
my father told me
draw mom
 
in bed with
another man—
 
         	…
 
From a plum tree
 
the sound of branches
fall like fruit
 
I’m older
no longer afraid
 
my voice like water
pulled from the well

where the wind had been buried
where someone was always

running into my room
asking, what’s wrong?

More by Diana Marie Delgado

Who Makes Love to Us After We Die

I turn on the radio and hear horses, girls becoming women after tragedy. Talk about dreams! His heart was covered in a thin shell the color of the moon, and when touched, I’d grow old. The best movies have a philosophy, Dorothy, after being subjected to witch-on-girl violence, is rescued. Someone hung himself on that set, a man, who loved, but couldn’t have a certain woman. Management said it was a bird. The best movies begin with an encounter and end with someone setting someone free. In Coppola’s version of Dracula my favorite scene is when the camera chases two women through a garden and watches them kiss. I made love to a man who asked, after many years, for me to choke him, so that later, cleaning a kitchen cabinet, I read a recipe he’d written into wood, and I had a hard time believing him.

Related Poems

Redaction

We make dogma out of letter writing: the apocryphal story 
of Lincoln who wrote angry letters he never sent. We wait for letters 
for days and days. Someone tells me I'll write you a letter
and I feel he's saying you're different than anyone else.
Distance's buzz gets louder and louder. It gets to be a blackest hole.
I want the letter about the time we cross the avenue, and you reach 
for my hand without looking—I am afraid I'm not what you want. 
We float down the street as if in the curve of a pod 
and the starry black is like the inside of a secret. We're drunk. 
The streetlight exposes us which becomes the deepest 
horror. Yes. End the letter like that, so it becomes authorless. 
Then the letter might give off secrets: acid imbalances that detonate.