I cry, “People!” while Patti drives the yellow Volvo over a bridge where so many have jumped into deeper waters. The girl in the pink blazer walking across hurts my eyes. I wonder if I will be driven to the same conclusion. In wintertime, on a crowded avenue, my face is smooth white stone. I skip pebbles on the river—wanting its secrets without diving in. It flows so close I feel blue visions shifting my veins. Far out at sea my family rows, squawking gulls denying the current; a thick black mist closes in. Not one of us knows how or why or what it is that moves us every day.
LINA MARINO lives and works in California. She is published in The Comstock Review, a recipient of a National League of American Pen Women award in poetry, and has earned her BA in Creative Writing from Binghamton University. She is working on her debut novel.
Cover image by Dréa Collage
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