No Apologies by John Grey

Sada Abe 21 by R Kurtz

She believes

the river gets the raw end of the deal.

Twenty feet to go

and she figures she’s

put one over on the water below.

It reckoned it was merely current.

At worst, a playground for fish.

But, in half a second, no more.

The river tolerates the canoers

but they merely scratch the surface.

And allows for fishermen,

their threads as thin as spiderwebs,

annoying, but gone by nightfall.

But a woman jumping from the bridge above

is more than it can bear.

How irked it will be when she sinks to the bottom.

How distraught when her body bloats

and floats to the top.

Its serenity, exquisiteness,

will be permanently scarred.

But I’m no beauty, she says.

Why should it be?

*****

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.