Genevieve Fitzgerald

I am on the bridge,
leaning over the railing,
looking into the water,
down under the surface.

There are eyes.

I shake my fist at you.

I do not want you to love me.
Not any more.
I understand you are dead,
and elsewhere,
and things are different,
and you cannot.

But I absolutely believe you can communicate still,
if you want to.
And that is what I want
and expect.
You owe me,
I think.

I am on the edge,
looking into the water,
down under the surface.
It is shallow and fishes swim over the rocks.