I suspect when I tell them of my marriage, most of my friends will look away, uncertain what to say.
Some will be embarrassed, some will be nonplussed.
Others will laugh aloud, shaking their heads as they stroll to the family room to check the football game.
Some friends may even understand, or want to think they do,
but I’m afraid, if I smile too much when I tell them I have married Brooklyn Bridge,
or if I get really heartfelt, not weeping but with voice choking up,
if I do that, I’m afraid, my friends will decide that I have gone too far.
This poetry thing, they will say, has taken over.
Hey! they will say, considering the vegetarian thing, you look like you could use a steak.
Those who mistrust the sober thing may even suggest a martini.
Look. Okay. All right.
All right, Peter and Bob and Phil and John, guys I went to college with, guys who could say about
this marriage of mine, Oh no, not again. Not still. He’s not still playing the fool.
I tell you, guys, I did not decide of a morning, Gosh! I’ve got to marry Brooklyn Bridge.
I did not make a plan. I did not set a goal.
Rather, the idea grew,
from a remark in a letter to a friend,
from a poem that followed,
from the sense as I flew east from Chicago to spend Christmas in Manhattan— the sense that I would like to marry the bridge,
that I would like to have that spiritual force always in my life.
I tell you, you walk out on the bridge,
where you are absolutely safe, with the cars on the roadway down below, on either side,
where you are never fearful,
where you never have any sense of edges, never any sense of non-support, no swaying,
where even the air feels textured with delight.
Oh, you walk out here and you are beautiful. You are rich and famous.
You are one with the glories of the world about you, Brooklyn Heights and
New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty and the towers of Manhattan.
You are one with all this beingness, and you are utterly free.
You are dancing in the air. You feel like you are flying.
You are joy.