Summary

A driver contemplates the risks and uncertainties of crossing a one-lane bridge to escape an approaching fire, torn between the assurances of friends and the warnings of strangers.

Abstract

In "One-Lane Bridge," the protagonist is caught in a moment of indecision at a critical juncture—a narrow bridge that promises safety from an encroaching fire. While friends beckon from the other side, confident that the bridge will lead to salvation, the driver is assailed by doubts fueled by rumors of sabotage and the contradictory claims of strangers who suggest the danger is an illusion. The poem captures the internal struggle of making a life-altering choice amidst conflicting information, the palpable fear of the unknown, and the consequences of action or inaction. As the protagonist weighs the potential for paradise against the risk of peril, the urgency of the moment is underscored by the cacophony of car horns and the haunting images of a fire that may or may not be real.

Opinions

The protagonist is uncertain about the structural integrity of the bridge and whether it can support the journey to safety.
There is a distrust of the information being received, as the protagonist acknowledges the presence of the fire based on hearsay rather than direct observation.
The protagonist grapples with the fear of making an irreversible decision, knowing that starting to cross the bridge means there is no turning back.
The reliability of the friends' encouragement is questioned, as is the sincerity of the strangers' warnings, leading to a sense of isolation in the decision-making process.
The protagonist reflects on the reality of the fire, acknowledging its existence through sensory experiences while also considering the possibility that it could be extinguished by rain or influenced by the wind's direction.
The poem conveys a sense of urgency and the weight of responsibility as the protagonist's decision could potentially impact others stuck behind in the face of danger.
The protagonist is haunted by the moral implications of their choice, including the potential loss of life and the memory of those who have already perished.
The final decision remains uncertain, reflecting the protagonist's ongoing internal conflict and the complexity of choosing between perceived safety and potential risk.

POETRY

One-Lane Bridge

There’s only one choice

A one-lane bridge, straight as a needle, across a roiling divide toward a green and healthy land on the other side. But I’m not so sure.

I sit in my car, half on and half off, wondering, will it hold me? Will it deliver me to paradise or be my final folly? I’m just not sure.

A fire burns behind me. I cannot see it, or feel its heated gusts. I am told it is there by people I trust, but I’m not so sure.

Who built the bridge? I cannot say. There are rumors around that they want to lure us and the bridge will fall down. I’m not completely sure.

From the other side, my friends shout assurances. But confident strangers insist the land beyond is an illusion and the fire does not really exist. I can’t be sure.

If I start to cross, there’s no turning back. I am safe in the moment; that I know for certain. The fire’s future encroachment, of that, I’m not so sure.

Alone in my idling life deciding to stay or to go while car horns, blaring behind me, might be the pleas of those I block, sounding a desperate symphony. But I’m not sure.

The confident strangers are less confident now. Their faces reflect a virulent scene, still preaching fear of the bridge they have crossed with rhetoric cloaked in a smokescreen. Maybe they’re not so sure.

Part of me knows the fire is real. Familiar voices cry out from its flames. I feel its heat and see its glow. But I think the rains might quench it and I wonder where the winds will blow. I’m not sure.

Those behind me have stopped their screaming. The car horns have ceased their racket. Perhaps they escaped the blaze. I hope my doubt was not their doom and they’ve gone off to see better days. But I’m not so sure.

The char-sweet smell of flesh consumed, loved ones whose voices called, and enemies who cursed me, thousands I do not know at all, and still, I am not sure.

Their essence rises, wafting on the breeze to form billowing clouds of loss. The ghosts of a million souls marching together across a one-lane bridge, straight as a needle. Straight as a needle.