TRAGIC Poem: A Dead Man Sings, by Briana Hammerstrom

A dead man sings of alcohol and bridges.

College Greek letters blur
into a hoodie, then
into a boy. He asks, “Are you
okay?” as I stand on a bridge,
over a makeshift creek
of snowmelt. I
was not drunk enough–
the water deep enough–
the jump drastic enough
to make a difference.

I did not have the heart
to tell him I was only trying to
talk with the current, not
get dragged by it. At least,
not this time. It is merely proof
of how difficult it is to hold
a conversation with water
trickling through your fingers.
Sobs and eddies alike.

A dead man sings of bridges and sobriety.

I think of every drink as a battle.
I do not let my new friends know this.
They have never met a Briana
who could not walk home
despite the fact she
was already in it.

I won this time. Home
safe, and sound, and then drowned
out the world, immersed in
victory song. The frontman sings
of smolder and I have never
known a 750ml to be incendiary–
quite the contrary, an empty bottle
can be a home; my glass house
interprets “slosh”
as ebb and flow: natural.
Ocean. River.
A makeshift creek.

If only I could sink
into the depths of me, wash
myself clean. It feels like
the only way to win the war.

A dead man sings of alcohol and sobriety.

I think of how Scott crooned for us
his preferred death; none of us
knowing the wiser, and yet,
knowing better. All of us,
knowing how we thirst
for a drawbridge. His loss
hits us without warning,
despite the alarms
gushing from his mouth,
blushing his cheeks.

Every song was a battlecry,
his own secret war hidden
in the tracks. His lyrics
once anointed me with
enough hope to swim on,
but now… Hope is
a dangerous thing. Feathers
float down the river,
the water itself
aching at the thought
of having to drown
such a delicate noun, knowing
it will have to do so anyways.