When the road is a flat line
I saw the car fly
across the median
like it had forgotten gravity.
I saw its rind
as passengers were peeled
from its pulp.
I saw somebody pushing
prayers into the apse of some
body’s chest.
I saw that church
rise and collapse
at the service.
I saw the other wearing a blanket
like a shroud, laid in the dirt
six feet too high.
Beside me, you
planted your feet
against my pull away. Helpless
as we were to act,
I didn’t want to see
two men not drinking breath
back into their lungs,
I didn’t want to see
how critical
their condition was
of their lives. I didn’t want
to see the mourning
news from days later,
telling me
what I already knew.
Lisa Olsen lives in Ottawa, Canada with her partner. A former ESL teacher, she now works as the Editorial Coordinator for a scientific journal. Her work appears in antilang., Not Very Quiet, Into the Void, and iō Literary Journal.