Red
Open Jeep
that raptured us down to the bottom of
Cherokee Hill
Aunt Shirley’s
face, toe nails, her flip flops
stretch band that
barely tamed her
wind whipped hair, weeping
bead work
burning my knee
reopened on soft blacktop
only minutes
before sirens
split the lazy August afternoon
Red
Bank
Baptist Church at the apex of
the curve
Beetle
helpless on its back, labeling on the cans
Bud
scattered
empties, some full ones
church key
perhaps
thrown clear with the passengers
blood
pooling
around the pinioned driver, everything
so it seemed
except the snow
white sheet I could not help but imagine resting
cool and light
gently drawn
over my astonished
fevered face.
