by Molly Thoms
There was a collision,
You were swept into the eddy
Of sliding, braking, honking
Tumult. Spit out as an
Afterthought. The truck didn’t see you.
Later, as the sterile chill invaded the
Thin defenses of your linen johnny,
The nurse and her stethoscope confirmed,
It was just a close call,
You were fine.
Yet along with the aluminum, glass,
And charred upholstery,
The backhoe guzzled a twisted,
Twelve gear Cannondale.
The greasy chain will never be untangled.
The chassis will scab over with rust.
But on days when it snows,
The faint song
Of tires soaring down country roads
Will call to you from the landfill.
Others came out worse,
Those who should have been
Illuminated by his headlights
Were broken by the current of
Chaos along with that truck driver.
His gaze fixed in the rearview mirror.
And for days, months, and years,
The iridescent rainbow blood
Of the punctured tanks
Of the splintered vehicles
Will seep through the asphalt
And into the ground.