Never Make a Left-Hand Turn On Moss While Driving a Buick In Odessa, Texas

When I was Seven, Six of us piled in to a shiny New Buick. “A quick errand across town” It was hot I fell asleep. I was awoken By the screams. A dump truck had eaten us up and spit out our core A heavy blow Against my head Made everything go dark. I wake up to silence. The screaming had stopped but the blood From my nose was resilient. I slink from under My aunt’s unconscious body. I can’t get the door open. My little brother cries. I find the strength to open The broken door that trapped us. I pull his tiny arm from the front seat He cries out I’m hurting him But I’ve seen too many movies Where cars blow up, And all I can do is keep pulling Till I fall back with him In my grip. I look at everyone mangled And unresponsive Inside the tiny car. I’d never seen So much blood. I hug my little brother, His head, full of glass. He points at my nose. But I care more about my shoe, it’s missing and People have begun to stare.