Tacoma Narrows
No word is safe when our leader lies, & small lies matter
as much as big ones — one whisper of deceit
swells in the retelling, then ripples outwards in a widening
wave. Engineers call it resonance
when small waves align then fuse into something seismic
like an earthquake, or the bridge
that in 1940 collapsed into Puget Sound. Not a big wind,
but when it rose, the entire span shuddered,
then heaved up its steel & asphalt in great rolling waves.
Before one cable failed, that suspension bridge
was an architectural marvel, the third largest in the world.
Every bridge is a web stayed by many lines
that must be guarded & kept like a vigil. So fragile,
this matrix of trust that is America.
Crucial, the strands binding our faith in it & in each other,
that suspend us in constant, terrible tension
across the abyss of disbelief. The straits boiling below feel
closer now, more dire. When words aren’t kept safe,
nothing is. Truth is the tension in the wire.