"Selfie at Deception Pass" by Risa Denenberg

Selfie at Deception Pass

There was no deception.
The application clearly stated: “Raindwellers Only.”
You can’t say
you didn’t know
you would drown here.

The bridge soars 180 feet above the narrows.
Click. You didn’t come here
planning to jump. You’re not a planner.
Clutching at the safety mesh, buffeted by crosswinds,
waters churning below, you pray
an enormous cormorant will swoop down to catch you mid-fall.

The regret that rises in your throat during the descent
was predictable. You said you only came here
to flee the voices, to unwind
amid the tall reed grasses that grow along ponds
and stitch these brackish waterways.

Instead of flight, perhaps you should have rowed.
The hell that flung you here
debarked with you. Like you, these geese flying north
to glean arctic shrubs
are only obeying instinct.

Risa Denenberg

Risa Denenberg lives on the Olympic peninsula in Washington state, where she works as a nurse practitioner. She is a co-founder and editor at Headmistress Press and a curator at The Poetry Café. She has published six collections of poetry, most recently, slight faith (MoonPath Press, 2018) and the chapbook, Posthuman, finalist in the Floating Bridge Press Chapbook Contest (2020).

Headshot: Risa Denenberg

Photo Credit: Staff