More Water

The future came crashing on us like a wave.
I used to say, very early on, our love

was an ocean, spilling and receading.
Mother's breastmilk and turned back.

I had an apartment overlooking
the Brooklyn Bridge, and there,

future, past, and present merged with the traffic.
The caissons, the lives lost in construction,

the wear on its cables, the cars on it now.
Roebling, the man who designed it,

the street I lived near, the limestone blocks,
the gentrification happening, the crumbling to come.

If love is a churning river,
we were two drops falling

on opposite sides of the bridge across.
Neither reaches the ocean first.