It was the wind
by Francisco R. Albano
of humans rushing over her
that made her one with the creaking bridge
and the dark canal smelling of rotten eggs.
She cringed like Eve
in the rag of nakedness
after the fall.
crossed to the other side,
not one with her, the bridge
and the canal smelling of rotten eggs.
was one with the bodies falling
into an open grave, stampless
as the wind.
She was not the wind, the bridge
and the canal smelling of rotten eggs
clasping for a second a touch
and a coin that was a dime.