bridge house Iris H. Mauricio 1we rub dry knuckles against moonlit eyes, quiet rasping, little wishes plucked and free-falling against cheeks, our elbows colliding, teen wrists catching lamplight in the dark, pale blue veins running rivers under shadows and gold. we shared space like kindling, the cliffs of our shoulders touching, the runways of our necks warmed by duvet and body and shared breaths. we were white-teethed small smiles, talking until the birds came to perch on the fingertips of 6AM light that reached in through the window blinds, touching gentle against the late-night bruises under our eyes, our limping eyelids, the tired corners of mouths— all our vulnerable parts we only show when no one else is around. 39