Night Crossing – Poetry by Jay Wickersham

Midnight. My son sprawls
in the tangle of his sheets.
Below, his general
measures cannon shots

toward a cliff of piled-up books.
Across the wood-grain river
a bridge spans toward the city.
We walk across together,

my son and I. The walls
and towers loom above.
We see a toppled arch,
a house without a roof,

the castle where the king
and court are hatching schemes,
where history proceeds
and prisoners have names.

I feel his anxious grip,
the press of finger bone.
Some day I’ll have to stop
while he goes on alone.


About the Poet

Jay Wickersham’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Agni, the William & Mary Review, the FormalistThe High WindowYankee, and the Harvard Review (an essay on having Seamus Heaney as a teacher). He is a member of the Powow River Poets in Newburyport, MA. He works professionally as an architect and lawyer, addressing problems of urban sustainability and climate change. 

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