Late winter, thick water slashes over the dam, granite roaring
under its force, punished only for being there, for settling
in ancient mud. The city festers in its sleep. No boats. Canals
that don’t move. This bridge above Pawtucket Falls, one a mile down
and between them it’s red brick, plywood windows reflecting nothing.
When you’re young, cities seem magnificent no matter what. Wide-eyed
you look up to all the buildings crowned with wreaths of ice, speak fondly
all the streets, mouth full with knowing This is home.
It’s later leaving comes to you. You search for where the water’s still
unmuddied, where the moon floats between branches reaching up and up.
And yet you leave and never leave. You stand beneath a lucent breath
of clouds that wax and wane and see the lights of Lowell rise and fall
on every wave. The river cuts deeper with every passing night.
Brian Simoneau is the author of the poetry collections No Small Comfort (Black Lawrence Press, 2021) and River Bound (C&R Press, 2014). His poems have appeared in Boston Review, Cincinnati Review, Colorado Review, Crazyhorse, The Georgia Review, Salamander, Waxwing, and other journals. Originally from Lowell, Massachusetts, he lives near Boston with his family.
Photo by Jayson Hinrichsen from Pexels