AJ Wright

The Bridge

On the day I come home, come sulking 
from the Midwest’s pale fields,

a boy rises from the creek to hurl a rock 
through my windshield. 

It’s a fire-pink evening, heat rising 
from Old River Road in waves 

and he’s steel-eyed and sunburnt,
clinging to the rail on the one-lane bridge 

and the rock is an accusation, shale sandwiched 
to slate and steaming in the glass. 

He bolts, all tendon and startle, high stepping 
through the knotty weeds, 

fading into the rows of late-summer corn, 
browning silks combing his cheeks as he goes. 

He is a dozen straw-haired boys, 
tacked by the shoulders with pin nails, 

a put-upon jury, slings holstered 
in their back pockets. 

Next time, the rock tells me,
you’ll remember.

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AJ Wright is a poet from Appalachia whose work appears or is forthcoming in SWING, APARTMENT Poetry, As It Ought To Be, New Croton Review, and elsewhere. She runs Pictura Journal, and her first collection will be published by Pulley Press in 2026. She currently resides in West Virginia.