by Faith Harris-Brown
I heard you cry out before
I heard the buckling
of metal and plastic.
I didn’t realize but
the God-breathed scripture
knocked the air from my lungs.
My stomach throbbed for days
My whole body bent forward, hung
by the seat belt
my head bowed in
violent prayer.
A second extended
through the blackness
The only sense
uncertainty
until the forward motion
was impeded by a second impact.
It is finished.
Lights from the used car lot
glossed green over the scene
The metal intertwined
like the beast with two backs.
Plastic unrecognizable, purposeless
sprinkled the road.
The same road where
You bought a succulent.
Where I picked up
my first dorm key.
That took us home after
our second date.
That should have brought us
to the house of worship.
Never the same.
