I am the burner of bridges, Said Bridget, the smoker of Cigarettes who lies and stares At the passing day. My childhood Follows me like a shadow’s dark; Its ghostly presence is always there, Its non wise words echoing in my Ear. I sleep with men for the lost love, kiss them in the search for my lost mother’s warmth, hug them In the lonely hours. My dead babies Cling to my legs, their tiny fingers Clutch at my dress as I walk along; Their eyes look up like lamps in the Still night. I am the aborter of babes, The owner of a useless womb; I push Out stillborns like a factory, give birth To a form but not to life; I am anyone’s Woman, any man’s wife, I lay and gaze At the moon, I watch smoke rise from My cigarette, it forms rings as father did, The smoke curling and rising with his Phantom presence there in room, the Ghostly cigarette hanging from his lips. I have searched for God in the blackness Of night, sought His love in the arms of men, Awaited His coming in the winter’s wind; His love is there, but I do not see, His arms Caress, but I do not feel; I am alone still. I am the walker of cities, the sitter in lone Cafes, the easy ride, the fuckable dame; I wear the badge of kiss me quick or leave Me never. I am the sleeper of nights in a Musty bed; see dead babies in heart and head.