Perspectives on the Charles River

Kyle Braver

The air seeping off the Old River smells of diesel and cold,
but in it I can still taste the sheen of the blackberries rotting on the vine
back in California. Two shacks hugging the water front are washed and
molded bit by bit till the ooze seeps out into the ground and the young
flesh reeks of the oily brine. I blink and water rushes through my eyes and
stabs my heart with a hundred little oozing arrows and I float up and
watch the gulls, painted brown and sick green by the vestiges of the setting sun,
depart. He turns the corner, walking east on Main and lights a match
on the bridge and God drops it and it’s swallowed by the river. Again: a
thousand patchwork planks and shirts light and the fires rob the bridge
and rob the city. I shiver watching the smoke fester. Then I close
my eyes once more and I’m in the river again.