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Your ribs, | split, | as you attempt to breathe,
pieces of your children lost in short lives,
ended because of brutal impact:
the crash of car against telephone pole,
Tony thrown from the back seat,
velocity reaching 90 mph
thrown into trees, into minutes before his death
when only one other kid in the car got to yell to him, "Tony, ya alright?"
You would never again see him smirk,
squint his brown eyes before leaving for the mall.
Your blood, ^^jagged,^^ cuts through veins,
through your tough, tanned stomach,
it stretched and contorted to help your babies grow.
Memories gnaw at your pelvic bone:
first teeth, first steps, last profiles within the white silk
of their caskets.
You fight more images of recall: your flight en route to the hospital,
Michael lying in the hospital bed, his commanding officer filling in whatever details he
could, "Broadsided by an 18-wheeler, ma'am. He was not driving."
The same side of Michael's face
injured like his older brother who stopped aging at 16.
Your prayer for Mike to see his 21st birthday.
You remember
the stark hospital arrangement,
medical equipment bleeps reality.
Mike unconscious,
his last movement draws a quick path
from the inner corner of his right eye to his bottom lip.
He dissolves into your finger.
To Valerie, in memory of Tony and Michael
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Theresa Edwards is an adjunct writing instructor and tutor at Marist College in Poughkeepsie, New York. Her poetry has appeared in Clean Sheets Magazine, Flutter Poetry Journal, SOFTBLOW, SNReview, Pitkin Review, and Chronogram, and is forthcoming in Autumn Sky Poetry and Blackmail Press. She has written musical compositions, including work for mixed media; a novella, "The Ride"; and a poetry manuscript entitled "Voices Through Skin." Theresa has an M.A. in English. She is the recipient of a fall 2006 Research Faculty Development Grant for Part-Time Faculty from Marist College, and is poetry editor for Quay, www.quayjournal.org.
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