Steve McOrmond

For years, a small white cross marked the spot
near the old dump where the driver
left the highway in a rainstorm, the car
skidding into the ditch and hitting a pole.

Volunteer firefighters used the jaws of life
to remove the body from the wreckage.
The boy’s father had what was left of the family
sedan brought home on the back of a flatbed.

The broken windshield, a drapery of cracks,
flapped against the buckled engine bonnet
as the truck travelled with its grim load,
showering the pavement with kernels of glass.

He insisted that it be placed on the front lawn,
a reminder to the young men in the village of
how dark it gets. There it sat, leaking red
transmission fluid and oil on the grass.

His wife could see it from the kitchen
window when she washed the dishes.
The youngest daughter had to walk by it
to catch the school bus in the morning.

Every year on the anniversary of the accident,
the subject was raised: maybe it’s time
to haul the wreck to the junkyard, let it rust
in peace, but the father wouldn’t hear of it.

Keep your grief close. Never let it out
of your sight. The daughter, asking to be excused,
withdrew to her room to seethe in the cavern
of her long black hair. Her mother cleared the table,

the sink filling with water as near to scalding as she could bear.

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Image by Kim Broomhall from Pixabay