the june after the bridge floated away

one march
my brother, my neighbor dylan
& i built a bridge across the 
creek behind our houses--
it was a Frankenstein of rotted limbs--
twigs-- rocks & the biggest 
thighs of the trees.
little worms scrawled over 
the backs of our hands as 
we peeled the wood from 
the dirt-- beetles scurried & screamed
armageddon.
foot in front of foot we walked on 
water to the other side
where we mistook the old limestone 
kiln for the throat of god--
this is where we made a shrine
to our childhoods--
strung rosaries out of plastic beads
& mulberries smudged in our
fingers-- wrote on the walls of
the cave with sharpie-- 
we didn't know any profound 
words other than our names & dylan
teased that i had always wanted to
kiss him--
the creek takes time to grow thick--
each weed reaching taller
through the months of spring--
& before summer gets too rampant
we still had time to 
explore in the waning months of
elementary school--
escape into the wet land around the
creek-- 
this was where we swallowed 
ourselves & set all the words 
used against us at school on
leaves to float them back 
down the stream so they couldn't
be used to hurt anyone again--
this was the year dylan's father died
& my brother & i watched
the ambulances congregate outside
his house like screaming beetles--
we learned there
are certain things you 
don't say sorry for
this was the year the thunder storms 
took away our bridge after years
of service-- this was 5th grade for
me & before school let out we 
all watched some man from
the borough plant
a sapling at the edge of the
stream as a gesture of truce
to the nature we
cut
back to build the strip
mall with the CVS in it--
the stream took back the logs
& the twigs-- the thighs of
the trees took burial 
in the mud beneath the water--
& we returned to find there 
to be nothing left but a few 
scattered trunks--
it was just dylan & i
so we baptized our feet in the mud--
left our socks on a the shore
& waded up to our hips--
on the other side we sat 
on buckets again
in the throat of god--
dylan coughed his mother's cigarette
ash & there was no where to
be swallowed to--
growing up isn't a moment--
a come-of-age-dream
where everything aligns & you
are on the other side of
it all--
growing up is crossing the 
creek with a bridge & watching the
bridge float away
with the words you left on
dead oak leaves &
growing up is a process of
taking no one with you-- letting
yourself get swallowed & learning
there are times to apologize 
for nothing just because someone
has to say something--
i want to say sorry to dylan now--
sorry to my brother for
not building the bridge
stronger-- i was oldest--
that was of course my job--
somewhere there is a neck of the stream
where all our leaves are still waiting--
their backs covered in bruises
& somewhere the beetles returned
to the undersides of tree
trunks we dislodged & they 
mutter to each other about
how desperately humans try to
make everything they
make last forever--