After Crashing
Rachael Duane
Let’s return to the wooden piano—Please.
Or to the glass dish with coated candies
that scatter like rattling bones. Let’s go
downstairs to hear the throbbing keys.
When I am driving home, I count on these
and family. Who would tell me no?
Summer rain, a truck, a hill, and mom
was driving. She spouts blood and repeats
three phrases, puffy breaths that can’t let go.
The world folds and strangers come—Screams.
Let’s go.
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