Grand Island, Nebraska

The pillow was a crook of shoulder I’d burrow
in at night, a cough one flight up the stairs

swelling out the choke of sawdust. Did I say
the raccoons were so intent on being perceived


between the walls that I often mistook
their scraping noises for ghosts? Pugnacity.
Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.