Black and late. The crickets,
mute. Yolk-yellow headlights
stumble through the darkness
like two sick eyes—
push shadows against the empty
parking lot. Tonight,
mom’s posture in the backseat
is soft while dad’s low-tide voice
from the passenger side
directs my sister’s hands.
But when my sister’s fallibility
swerves and accelerates—
silhouettes stiffen, shouting—
from my position on the sidewalk
again I am lurched to the cracks.
Scratches. Dents. On this family van.
One night I ran straight into a barn.
The chickens clustered around the tires,
dazed and white, shocked into silence
at the eggshells crushed like glass.
My family in our spare moments—
a half-hour trip to the city,
the quiet satisfaction after
a nice dinner—lecture each other
on the mess of accidents, but
what I needed to learn, just once
I think, was how
to look the rearview mirror
straight in the eye. To cradle light
after shattering its thin-shelled breath.