No thwock of ignition, no whump of heat sails by
as I squeal to a stop the cardboard box my sleeping brain
makes into a fire engine.

Glass powders the highway like snow.

Strobes churn the dark. My ego radios for help
as I rush pell-mell with a dull axe
the halligan’s crow-billed
steel fork and spike
towards the crumpled sedan melting
in front of me.

What a moment before burned like a wad of paper
is now a dogwood flower that’s sprouted pink,
sudden and enormous from the broken yellow line.

Petals swollen,
salmon glow flickering against a body trembling inside.
Always the wrong tools,
my set of irons clatter to the ground, my hide-thick gloves.

Black fingers trace clefts until the folds part
and unfurl to asphalt,
allow entrance to the cinder-black body inside.

Taking the blisters of her lips in mine,
I knew her.

Because no one is coming
I plunge the crackle and rind of her chest,
snapping ribs like kindling
until the cavities of her heart
I cup with both hands

as if with the right touch the pump will start again,
her eyes open like I remember,
and this time love me.