The bridge. It had become her obsession, filling the emptiness Michael had left behind. When she got to her mom’s, she would put David to bed. She’d kiss him, tell him to be a good boy. She’d take a walk, sit on that bridge, and dream about flying. Yes, she’d dream about flying all the way down. —from The Creek Watcher by Feivel Wolff


Webster, give me a word for
the feeling of
sitting on a balcony
reading strangers’ obituaries

the reflection in the laptop screen is

d i s t o r t e d

…keep reading: trying by Rachel Schollmeier