XXX. The Overpass.

The overpass calls my name

calls my name, lures me with its drop.

A bird without flight, I am here again,

perched between asphalt and sky,

tempted to fly.

A mistake, yes. Perhaps the last I dare to name.

The weight of me,

a sorrow borne in flesh.

The mind, a threshold-lover,

hoarder, collector

of promises, of possibilities.

The siren chants the question

as if it were the answer,

asking whether a body is a barrier

or a door one learns to walk through.

Below, a river of traffic,

a severed pulse spilling its heat.

Above serenity,

the clean blade of air.

The overpass knows its purpose:

to hold the instant taut,

a moment hung between moments

where thought crosses thought,

where the self meets the self

and one must give way.

In time, I get through.

Eventually

all things pass over.

For what it’s worth,

-Charlene Iris

One thought at a time.

One truth at a time. 

Because some epiphanies stay with you.