14
Baby Shoe
There is a bloody baby shoe
in the middle of the road
and pieces of glass
beam against
black asphalt
as if some fairy had sprinkled
it there for some secret
or profane purpose.
There are a few tire skids
that have stained
the firm and knowing ground,
but what about the twisted limbs,
the torn flesh?
This is all gone,
somewhere forgotten
by those who never knew
me to begin with, and perhaps
the people that knew me
are beginning to forget.
These accidents.
These crashes
here on earth, which begin as a journey.
Trying to get someplace.
And then it stops or starts.
These ancient accidents freeze my teeth
and clutter my head with death.
My body moans
and tenses
as I crash over and over
in an automobile out of control.
One I have not learned to drive.
And even if I did,
it would not matter
because I am crashed into,
what ounce of control I have
is taken from me
and I am sent into spins
sent through a windshield,
mangled and crippled,
my teeth knocked out of my face,
my baby knocked out of her shoes,
my fingernails ripped off from
soaring, landing,
onto glorious asphalt.
But I will not die.
I will see a bloody baby shoe
and sprinkled glass,
a glittering fairy hovering over me,
offering a delicious smile
that I do not want to taste.
Melissa Hansen lives in San Francisco with her husband where she writes, works at public libraries and is a co-editor of poetry for The Guild of Outsider Writers. She has published and forthcoming work in various literary zines.
