I wrote this poem in May 2016 in exchange for a print of Bruce Bicknell’s painting of the “Bridge of Sighs” in downtown Scranton that connects the Fire Department headquarters with the Municipal Building. Bruce and I often talked about the classic movies we were watching on TCM including the 1979 film A Little Romance (1979) — I found the legend about kissing under the Venetian Bridge of Sighs at sunset wildly romantic. At that time, I was still very much in love with J after despite numerous heartaches and the cyclical disappointment of complicated circumstances. My rational mind encouraged me to move on but my heart held fast. Ten years ago, this piece read a little desperate — a stubborn refusal to accept the apparent reality. Today, less than 24 hours before J and I are to be married, the poem takes a different tone. They say you can’t change another person and I haven’t tried, but that doesn’t mean a person will not find the courage to change themselves. Our story is not over; we continue to grow, but for now, it appears the wait was worth it. —ag


watercolor painting of the "bridge of sighs" - a stone, enclosed walkway suspended between two buildings

Bridge of Sighs*

The inhale came before I knew to pay
attention while my thoughts hypnotically
traced the curve of his muscle
— this is my rhythm now.
Whirling in the early-morning fog,
his skin swelling against my gratitude
until bliss dissipates in pragmatic glare.

Now aware,
I am here under the bridge,
still waiting.
I have been waiting there this whole time,
patiently or not,
watching shadows slip from West to East,
gradually into withdrawal.

I cannot leave,
but they taught me to let go.
The release of my longing rattles windows.
I heave desire into concrete cracks where
weeds strain to find nourishment in the
alkaline fertilization sprayed by city dogs,
the drunk and the destitute.

The body sighs 15 times an hour
— every five minutes or so
but it’s easy to lose track on dreary days when the urge to move
from the place we have been
to any place else
is so strong
I’d rather walk in the rain,
letting drops smear mascara
in a camouflage collage of tears I can’t erase —
a contaminating glitter stuck to everything.

The pedometer says we’ve traveled miles,
yet here we are,
returned to where it began.
I only walked around the block in fear I might
miss something.

But he did not come while I was gone
in that lull when my faith had faltered,
embarrassed by the so Godot of this routine.
No notifications.
No missed calls.
No oaths or promises to justify my conviction.

Yet, I still trust that if it is meant to be
nothing will stand in the way,
not even my inability to stand still.
Given enough time they will all line up
— the kiss, sunset and tolling church bells
(if not a gondola)
or we will make our own mythology.

And it doesn’t matter
how long the wait has been,
when the destination is eternal love and bliss,
no endurance is too much.
Why would God have guided me
to this Electric City,
its glow dim after decades of struggle,
If I was not meant to wait for him;
to wait for love?

—”Bridge of Sighs” by Alicia Lynn Grega starts on page 71 of her book Dystalgia.

*Humorously, the “sigh” of Bridge of Sighs refers to the moment prisoners crossing the river to their windowless? (underground?) cells on the other side paused to take what might be their last year view of the outside world and the beauty of Venice.