Over the Mad River, maybe,
or the Miami, whichever
was between our house
and my volunteer job
at a nature center.

A certain bend of
green-brown water,
a certain terror

she couldn’t explain
and I couldn’t understand.
A pause, several deep breaths.
It’s possible, too, that she
talked herself through it:
Come on, Rosemary.

It’s possible, but I can’t ask her
about this or any other moment,
about this or anything else.
There are no more bridges
for us to cross

together.