"A Woman Is Talking to Death"      One   Testimony in trials that never got heard      my lovers teeth are white geese flying above me   my lovers muscles are rope ladders under my hands      we were driving home slow   my lover and I, across the long Bay Bridge,   one February midnight, when midway   over in the far left lane, I saw a strange scene:      one small young man standing by the rail,   and in the lane itself, parked straight across   as if it could stop anything, a large young   man upon a stalled motorcycle, perfectly   relaxed as if he'd stopped at a hamburger stand;   he was wearing a peacoat and levis, and   he had his head back, roaring, you   could almost hear the laugh, it   was so real.   "Look at that fool," I said, "in the   middle of the bridge like that," a very   womanly remark.      Then we heard the meaning of the noise   of metal on a concrete bridge at 50   miles an hour, and the far left lane   filled up with a big car that had a   motorcycle jammed on its front bumper, like   the whole thing would explode; the friction   sparks shot up bright orange for many feet   into the air, and the racket still sets   my teeth on edge.      When the car stopped we stopped parallel   and Wendy headed for the callbox while I   ducked across those 6 lanes like a mouse   in the bowling alley. "Are you hurt?" I said,   the middle-aged driver had the greyest black face,   "I couldn't stop, I couldn't stop, what happened?"      Then I remembered. "Somebody, " I said, "was on   the motorcycle." I ran back,   one block? two blocks? The space for walking   on the bridge is maybe 18 inches, whoever   engineered this arrogance. in the dark   stiff wind it seemed I would   be pushed over the rail, would fall down   screaming onto the hard surface of   the bay, but I did not, I found the tall young man   who thought he owned the bridge, now lying on   his stomach, head cradled in his broken arm.      He had glasses on, but somewhere he had lost   most of his levis, where were they?   And his shoes. Two short cuts on his buttocks,   that was the only mark except his thin white   seminal tubes were all strung out behind; no   child left in him; and he looked asleep.      I plucked wildly at his wrist, then put it   down; there were two long haired women   holding back the traffic just behind me   with their bare hand, the machines came   down like mad bulls, I was scared, much   more than usual, I felt easily squished   like the earthworms crawling on a busy   sidewalk after the rain; I wanted to   leave. And met the driver, walking back.      "The guy is dead." I gripped his hand,   the wind was going to blow us off the bridge.      "Oh my God" he said, "haven't I had enough   trouble in my life?" He raised his head,   and for a second was enraged and yelling,   at the top of the bridge "I was just driving   home!" His head fell down. "My God, and   now I've killed somebody."      I looked down at my own peacoat and levis,   then over at the dead man's friend, who   was bawling and blubbering, what they would   call hysteria in a woman. "It isn't possible"   he wailed, but it was possible, it was   indeed, accomplished and unfeeling, snoring   in its peacoat, and without its levis on.      He died laughing: that's a fact.      I had a woman waiting for me,   in her car and in the middle of the bridge,   I'm frightened, I said.   I'm afraid, he said, stay with me,   please don't go, stay with me, be   my witness "No," I said, "I'll be your   witness later," and I took his name   and number, "but I can't stay with you,   I'm too frightened of the bridge, besides   I have a woman waiting   and no license   and no tail lights "   So I left   as I have left so many of my lovers.      we drove home   shaking, Wendy's face greyer   than any white person's I have ever seen.   maybe he beat his wife, maybe he once   drove taxi, and raped a lover   of mine how to know these things?   we do each other in, that's a fact.      who will be my witness?   death wastes our time with drunkenness   and depression   death, who keeps us from our   lovers.   he had a woman waiting for him,   I found when I called the number   days later      "Where is he" she said, "he's disappeared/"   "He'll be all right" I said, "we could   have hit the guy as easy as anybody, it   wasn't anybody's fault, they'll know that,"   women so often say dumb things like that,   they teach us to be sweet and reassuring,   and say ignorant things, because we don't invent   the crime, the punishment, the bridges      that same week I looked into the mirror   and nobody was there to testify;   how clear, and unemployed queer woman   makes no witness at all,   nobody at all was there for   those two questions: what does   she do, and who is she married to?      I am the woman who stopped on the bridge   and this is the man who was there   our lovers teeth are white geese flying   above us, but we ourselves are   easily squished.      keep the women small and weak   and off the street, and off the   bridges, that's the way, brother   one day I will leave you there,   as I have left you there before,   working for death.      we found out later   what we left him to.   Six big policemen answered the call,   all white, and no child in them.   they put the driver up against his car   and beat the hell out of him.   What did you kill that poor kid for?   you mutherfucking nigger.   that's a fact.      Death only uses violence   when there is any kind of resistance,   the rest of the time a slow   weardown will do.      They took him to 4 different hospitals   til they got a drunk test report to fit their   case, and held him five days in jail   without a phone call.   how many lovers have we left.      there are as many contradictions to the game,   as there are players.   a woman is talking to death,   though talk is cheap, and like takes a long time   to make   right. He got a cheesy lawyer   who had him cop a plea, 15 to 20   instead of life   Did I say life?      the arrogant young man who thought he   owned the bridge, and fell asleep on it   he died laughing: that's a fact.   the driver sits out his time   off the street somewhere,   does he have the most vacant of   eyes, will he die laughing?         a table they made and on it was laid a baby we gave and I'm so dry mud cracked I maybe we deny where these walls won't let go of my eyes we made a circle of smoke on a train please same me from saying it was easy we were driving across the bridge so slow he lost his child in the snow