Two accidents, one stretch of road that zips
steep into a busy highway, stamped
with houses high with bushes near
their windows, like perfectly tapered
fingernails picking apart the sky.
I've only been in two accidents and each one
took place here under the wide awe
of windows, the first with my stepmother,
small-legged and sassy, broken to shudders
behind a front hood smashed to the bumper
of another car.
It was here, on the phone with my father,
seatbelt off and face flying into fabric seats,
that I sought out logic, so that when the phone flew
and I, confused, decided I should scream.
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