Back to Issue 3

18 by Heather Swanson

shards of glass owned your face
-this i remember-
crawling thru the mangled frame
of my parent's grocery getter
gut heavy with  nausea

today was your birthday
(my gift to you would be death)
had i known i would have stayed home
sent you a card
full of wishes for a long, happy life

three of us piled into that wood paneled mini van,
you thru the last door opened
me, in charge, behind the wheel
sinead o'connor (your favorite) filled the space between us
an omniscient "this is the last day of our acquaintance"
we did not recognize the significance, the coincidence

seconds - one, two, three
looking down to turn up the volume
in foolish seconds, it was done
into the intersection
beams of light from another car
hazy disbelief

i do not remember the sound of the crash
or the rolling
or the sliding
i do not remember how we ended up
on the wrong side of the road,
unrecognizable, tangled
engine hissing profanity's
but i do remember turning to look (panic screaming silently)
for you in the back seat
you were not there

shards of glass owned your face
this i remember
crawling thru the mangled frame
under the heavy night
your body lay still
framed by yellow lines on blacktop
neck snapped
dreams shattered
it was your birthday
eighteen years
i wish i had stayed home.