And if we can’t be the land,
soft and dry beneath their feet,
let us be a bridge, let our bodies
be the planks they step across,
let our linked arms be stronger
than any cables could be.
And if we can’t be a bridge,
let us be the air, let our breath
become theirs, let us fill them up
so their lungs don’t hurt like hearts.
And if we can’t be the air,
let us be the clouds, let our mouths
hold in the rain, let us swallow it down
until the soil knows thirst again.
And if we can’t be the clouds,
let us be the light, let our veins
become wires, let us blaze
each bulb with our electric blood.
And if we can’t be the light—
or clouds or air or bridge or land—
let us be the water itself. The flood.
Let us float them home on our backs,
then recede into pools, into puddles,
into dew dissolved by sun.
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Megan Collins holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Boston University. She teaches creative writing at the Greater Hartford Academy of the Arts and is Managing Editor of 3Elements Review. A Pushcart Prize and two-time Best of the Net nominee, her work has appeared in many journals, including Compose, Linebreak, Rattle, Spillway, and Tinderbox.
