by Angela M. Brommel

Sometimes we are running, and I don’t know where we began or where we are going. It’s just a flash of trees and the cobblestone road of our favorite neighborhood where we first fell in love. We run up sidewalks and struggle with locked doors, and then just keep running as the clouds get lower and the sky turns darker. We are so used to running parallel like two multi-colored ribbons that sometimes flow over and under until they change sides and pick up again, that we don’t even see each other until we pause one moment. Crouched in the peony bushes next to an old stucco house, you say she crushed you. You say the last one really crushed you when she walked away. I can hear the pads of heavy feet cracking the pavement only blocks away. You say nothing. Your breath smells of bitter almonds.

Angela M. Brommel is a Nevada writer with Iowa roots. She holds an MA in Theatre from the University of Northern Iowa, and an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University Los Angeles. Her poetry has appeared in Vapid Kitten, Sweet: A Literary Confection, Now Culture and is forthcoming in The North American Review. She currently teaches Humanities and Women’s Studies at Nevada State College.