I walk across
            the St. Johns Bridge
with my father

even though we’re both
                        afraid of heights.
not of falling—we’re afraid

because we have the urge
                        to jump. we stop
at the middle of the bridge

to gaze into the face of
                        gravity—see rainbows
in the film of black oil

lapping at the shore
                        below & watch
a flotilla of kayakers

& think about cancerous fish.
                        the choppy, blackish-green
river water under the sky

that’s holding itself in
                        calls to us as if
it has a magnetic pull.

It won’t hurt, just jump.
                        the rushing air
would be cool on my face.

he steers my shoulders
            away from the railing.
we reach the other side

of the bridge
& walk into
the forest.

Max Stone is a retired college soccer player and a current poetry MFA candidate at the University of Nevada, Reno. He is from Reno, Nevada, and has lived in various other places before finding his way back there (for now). He dabbles in book arts and is probably out going for a run right now.

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