My shape came from out-of-nowhere.
The way some things don’t belong
That’s the way
I clanged up to the car
Trapped by a badly timed light.
Her poor kids never saw our image
Swell in the rearview mirror.
I was the danger of bulk; fast,
Nervous fingers
Barked the unlocked door open
And in I flooded, all the heartache
A lonely stretch of road can give.
Then she was alone, blinking in
The sight of an indifferent moon
Above the pines
This, she swore, was the sound
Of my voice.
Is this from the Brutal Imagination book of C. Eady? I badly need his poem for the Susan Smith case. Thank you! 🙂