poems

Car lady

 

leavescommonswikimediaorg14/05/2017

I don’t recall which came first the impact or the thud.

I don’t know if I couldn’t see first or I couldn’t hear but

I remember the blood.

It’s fabric.

The way it’s cells marshalled all over my leg,

led by little red and white generals heading to a pointless funeral.

Dead.

It’s the little things you remember when shock hits.

She was wearing a cream bra. I could see it through her loose fit.

She’d tried to steer away, her lip she’d bit.

I can’t not see her – In my head she sits.

Her eyes are blue and catch mine briefly.

I spin after the impact and leave the ground beneath me.

There’s a crunch and she’s gone as the car spins and nothing rhymes anymore.

I want to go back to seeing her face the way it was before.

Their was a bloody mist of rain where I’d fell.

Scattered raindrops of  me everywhere.

Quite poetic for a major injustice.

Six months later I’d still be on crutches.

They wanted me to sit because I couldn’t stand.

People stopped to watch.

It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t planned.

They pulled her out.

I can still hear the screeching metal.

Smell the rubber and see the flashing lights.

It wasn’t quite day and it wasn’t quite night.

Therapy was offered.

I explained I wasn’t bothered by anything apart from her lack of movement,

like she’d somehow lost a light.

They told me it would pass in time,

but she still talks to me at night.

Copyright G.P WIlliamson 2017

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