Witness

I told the story till the words felt dry,

a hollow rattle or a long-forgotten cry.

I thought I’d made the purple of the sky

into a grand and desperate sort of lie.

But then he nodded, slow and very sure,

and said the light was exactly like a sore.

A bruised and heavy violet on the ridge,

the night we stood beneath the iron bridge.

My shoulders dropped a gallon of the weight,

swinging open like a rusted gate.

My lungs finally found the room to swell,

underneath the brick-dust and the smell.