Epistle to Mom

I stood on the bridge a long time at dusk, looking over Chattanooga.
In the park on the west shore, several small girls ran in circles, their mothers
Bending low to take them by the arm and pull them towards the parking lot.
On the east shore, traffic advanced cautiously, all the cars on the interstate
Bathed in the same evening light. Slowly, the mountains grew dark,
Lookout Mountain on my left, Signal on my right. I thought about what you had
Arranged for me, in Memphis, that flat country, the flat university,
How it didn't fit me at all, who should be going forward on her own, who
Should be in some "higher" place. I walked the planks of the bridge
To the other side, and looked at McClellan Island, which they say is empty
or haunted. I said the name of the bridge out loud: "Walnut. Wall Nut."
I walked back to the parking lot in darkness and sat in my car a long time.

Graduation looms.
At dusk, on the east side of the Mississippi, business women
Are walking home. A ray of dying light sometimes catches one
Of their lined, frowning faces. I turn and look at the river,
Which hardly seems to move at all. There are no
Pedestrian bridges here, no Lookout or Signal mountains.
I must stand against a guard rail, looking at Mud Island,
At the trickle of tourists leaving; I am leaving soon--
To what? To where? I say that I see no higher place, only
The flat, pavement-colored river, the worried businesswomen, the overcrowded
Suburban island, and beyond, the thick wilderness of Arkansas.