A journal of narrative writing.
Above her,
almost white
sky scalloped
by dark leaves.  
The car reeks 
of Camels.
Her eyes burn.
If she strains 
she can see 
a bald crown
wreathed in smoke
above her.
Hands and feet
tied with twine
tingle, throb, 
go numb.  Her 
gagged tongue swells.  

She wakes, sees 
not a dream
landscape but
headlights' gleam 
blazing trees'
low branches.
Will it help
to picture
sky blue eggs
clutched in high
safe places?
To recall
days the air
shaking gold
on parked cars
shone as if 
with grace?  When,
if ever, 
will You come
rescue me? 
can I be
whole again?

God sees what
she cannot-
sheets airborne
from the truck
they plane through
the air, catch
the asphalt
by edge, by
corner, break
into shards
flying back
like arrow
flints piercing
grill and wind-
shield, driver's 
skull and chest, 
how the car
swerves, catches
a guardrail
head on, guts
itself, how 
she is thrown, 
swaddled with
string, into 
unplanned birth.  

Every birth
is unplanned
by the born, 
a rich gift
they could not
request, but
must return
on demand.  
She flew, not
knowing why,
from fire, from
crushed metal,
to laurel,
shattered limbs
in a fall
of cupped blooms, 
lay flowered
on the ground
in pink-edged 
white, lay bound 
to the earth 
she had not 
yet escaped.