Poetry
Lindsey Pierce
Crash I remember. Remember Independence Day, 1995? Waiting for you, eating Grandma’s dumplings. After work, you got your red fishing pole and your nightcrawlers and took that snakey road leading nowhere. Then your Jeep did somersaults, dirt and sky juxtaposed like a painting. Back at home, a hungry monster ate my nervous insides, and the firecrackers were like bombs of war. Your Jeep was a giant pretzel. And you didn’t call. I remember. I stared. Stared at the wall, Shredding every fiber of every fingernail. After hanging upside down from the seatbelt, you scaled your Jeep and punched numbers with bleeding digits. Then Uncle Tim answered, and his voice cracked open like an egg. He was gone for hours, looking for your hidden ditch. Finally, you saw two spheres of rescue light and arrived, coated in glass bits. A walking, breathing mosaic. I stared. I knew. Knew there was more than a negligent hit-and-run. Your eyes met the carpet in guilty brainstorm, and the fiery flush of your face was guilty, too. You were fishing for a holiday trout to bring for Grandma’s dinner, But the road was winding and the sky was dark, and you saw firecrackers like bombs of war. But I could smell your breath. And while you slept, I knew.
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P at h o s / F a l l 2 0 0 9