Out on the runway, screaming at grey engines
how did he not open his stomach up in front of the T.V.?
how did Tommy go on living,
the boy never showed, they were to fight at 3, after school
who will I fight now? Who will I hurt?
Who has survived the drowning
Black Atlantic,
bone nails clawing to shore,
writhing in the black tentacles
of scuba gear.
Who stalks the land anew;
unafraid.

Written about a car accident on May 21, 2014

The phone only rings once
but I don’t even pause for that
I just sputter out the sobs
and sloppy descriptions of a flipped car
and cross streets where she can find us.

I remember to assure her
that me and Cyra – yes she is with me – are fine
and we turned down the trip to the ER
in the cramped ambulance
with the neglectful girl
that might have a broken arm,
probably from the nearly fatal
death grip she had on her navigation
through that red light.

They ask me the same questions
at least four times
but I can’t possibly remember
which direction I was driving
because we flipped twice in the air
and shattered my windshield in the process
and I’m not sure how we got all the way
across the intersection
because now I’m sitting on Walnut
but that’s the opposite of
the direction I was headed.

I reach for her hand because I’m just glad for two things.

I took most of the impact
and the seatbelt abrasions
and bruised bones
are mostly on my limbs
and not hers.

I looked over to my passenger seat
in fear of what I would find,
and saw her looking back at me,
scared, but alive.

May 23, 2014 3:48:40 PM