By Ed Madden
We drive across the bridge, late at night, a hundred feet or so of clattering boards—
no rail, no rim, just jagged planks, and river flowing slow and brown below. The bridge
collapsed last year. I cross it every night in sleep—sometimes alone, sometimes with him—
but always away from home. The bridge's end may veer; each night I go someplace else,
dark cypress swamp on either side. One night my father is the driver and the car.
He opens up the door of his side, and I climb in. I cross the bridge again,
riding in the body of my father.
Dream fathers and more of Ed’s poetry can be found in his most recent book of poetry, Prodigal: Variations, 2011. Ed is the poetry editor for Jasper Magazine.