Trevor O'Brien is currently attending college at The University of Central Florida, where he seeks to major in English, and eventually teach Creative Writing at university level. His poetry has appeared in Word Riot, The IBPC, and The Ravenna Independent.

The Last Six Bridges in Ravenna

Forgive the water. The rain will fill what rain erodes,
concrete holes will spill over with mud and cigarette-ends,
tumble into the river as it pushes to break wooden legs.

How many hollow birds can one endure? The eldest
child of Atlas, in stasis, waits for the spine to snap. The crows
in a row on the handrail watch vultures circle overhead.

There is no way around it. The ugly trestles and pillars, the river
colored piss, the concrete milky bird shit, the decaying spray-can art.
Fred was here; he's long dead now. He found no way around it.

Fishermen leave their wives for this. As long as calm calls
the quiet type of men; never cursing the thistle, stemming in soft breeze,
she will rest here always, with infidelities and thistle leaves.

At night, light only exists here through the inconstancy of fireflies,
but I swear I saw some ghost shifting in the distance, blind-
folded and pointing at the railing. I closed my eyes and he was gone.

The neighbors packed their world into a few small suitcases and crossed
a bridge on their way out of town. When that river froze, the bridge collapsed
and the city built a road in its place. I believe in death, ever slow process.