UPON TRYING TO RECONSTRUCT A BURNING BRIDGE  by  karen marie christa minns

If I were to tell you all of it,   or any,
To go to the window and scratch
its name through the frost;
to write it out in front of you
in the dust
on the table top;
If I were to sit you down,  to pull
the paper from your eyes,
to look in    and sink   sink far enough
and then
to rise;
If I were to tell you all,  to bring
its body into the room,
to expose the skin   the flesh   the bone,
Whatever goes below
the bone;
To put it in your lap, to take your hand
to the edge of touch–   still,
You’d stand.
Push me back.
as if movement
was the answer     and
all of this,   even  this,
Would say,
“It doesn’t matter.”