In the seat beside him.
flesh was metal
and metal, flesh.
The collision was all on his wife’s side.
A trickle of blood
headed his left cheek.
It could have been hers.
He wasn’t sure.
extracted her from that steel bric-a-brac
while police lights
called out to nosy strangers.
A firm hand guided him into the ambulance
in the stretcher’s wake.
A tactful tow truck kept its distance.
For street after street,
the night’s noise
was with them all the way.
as one voice talked him down from shock
and another coaxed her out of death.
That he survived was a given.
That she pulled through was a miracle.
They sit on the porch of their new home,
sip wine and twilight with tongue and eyes.
Only her scars discuss the accident.
Not a conversation exactly.
More of a mild collision with the setting sun.
About the Author
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
Hawaii Pacific Review, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Willard and Maple and Clade Song.