by Allison Shoemaker
Several things: first, as the car
spun and spun along the curve
of the earth, he reached down
and switched off the radio.
Silence was best. Second,
when the car compacted, neatly
grotesque, it formed an egg-shaped nest.
Pricey vehicle, nice piece of engineering.
Third, there was a dog in the back,
enjoying the ride. The dog
didn’t make it. Fourth,
the man, as most would, screamed.
The scream crept out, twirled
with the car, enveloped its maker,
a long and painful vowel. The car
pressed its hips, grinding and moaning
into a tree, a sugar maple;
inertia sent his mouth, gaping,
gasping, into the steering wheel,
curve into curve. The flesh ripped.
A circle met an arc, precise, clean, lovely—
a cartographer’s dream. His jaw rested
on his neck. His teeth flapped.
Messy. Expensive. He wrote
on my paper gown: the thing
about love, blood and money
is that you only need two to survive.
