POETRY BY ADAM GIANFORCARO

Lullaby at Overtoun

A mysterious and fatal history surrounds Overtoun

Bridge in West Dunbartonshire, Scotland, where dogs

have been known to jump off the bridge to the rocks 50

feet below.

So says the bridge, This is where dogs leap

to their deaths. Every surrounding structure

tuned in, nodding with loose gravel,

for every platform, every overpass

is an altar from which to ponder—

the story of a shadow, the long-

drawn exhales of townsfolk and self.

At home, after being talked down,

there’s the entire internet to browse

to take one’s mind off such ruthless gravity.

There’s a website to stream movies,

another to advise if a dog dies in any of them.

Collectively, the family chooses a documentary

on birds, and the birds dance, so silly

the way their bodies jerk in black-winged ballet,

in feathery folk dance: movements

made for mating. Such brilliant tweeting sounds,

a stunning orchestral score, but not a single birdsong

to remind the family of their fatal flaw,

that their wings, not-wings, are merely shoulder blades,

as limited in movement as the moon’s rotation.

So says the bridge, says the shadow, says the self,

Even the wandering albatross cannot remain forever

afloat. For flight is as much a farce as forever is.

Even in dreams, a floating dog can hold as much weight

as a diving bell, descending deeper into dark waters.