In prison drawn
men in a circle
let him do to himself
what he did to others.
How can we forgive,
like bees in a hive
working towards a common goal?
The day of the incident he wore an unfamiliar
brand of grease in his hair
slicked back, excess of moisture,
mouth an “O”, semi-permanent,
teeth slammed against the car bag
that saved his life, already bruises
on his forehead, shirt cut
left arm bare—
these photos in the police report—
more real than when I saw him cut out
of the truck after he slammed into our house.
Not Latino but Italian it turns out,
Gino, father of two little ones
but in these photos
the white Honda that he hit crumbled
like a tub of toothpaste
at the intersection,
driver taken to the hospital
in serious condition—
no statement from her.
“I felt the side of his trailer,”
another driver stated,
“He was going 45 in a 25 zone” said another
and other—
through a red light, four way stop
photo of a woman in a gurney
photo of a fireman looking underneath the house
where foundation bent
where beam broke
where the fire started
and was put out by three neighbors.
Before he got in his car that day
did his wife froth eggs
in two swipes, did she
kiss him goodbye
or did she, years earlier
abandon his name,
move to Richmond.
No alcohol detected, no drugs, no
poison. Did he finish high school?
Did his father or mother come from Italy,
own a restaurant, a construction business?
Did he fall on hard times,
prepping his hand-made trailer
that morning, oversized construct
sailing behind him up the street, out of
alignment with the truck?
What kind of grease did he use in his car?
As they wheeled him out
his fingers, inert,
did not hold onto anything.
“Unconscious” said the police officer
like it happened every day, consequences
of his job, holding everyone’s gaze
as if he were famous,
but he was not the center of activity.
Dried blood on Gino the driver’s neck—
you have wrecked the house—
floors, walls, cabinets, chimney, underpinnings—
you have wrecked lives
exhausted your channels
like a stove, pipes. clogged.
I’m trying not to rely on heresay,
to stick to the official line
but the green tablecloth is patterned
with lead paint and the bookcases are like mis-blown glass
in pieces on the floor.
The sound of grief in the morning,
I cannot put my finger on this winter
in late summer, cannot categorize the level
a hurricane of red within.
Some epiphany may arrive
from reckless abandon
walking down the hill to familiar lands.
I am not graceful
but make my way quickly and effortlessly
with my fists clenched.
I will not make promises,
shattered upon waking.
Your vehicle was not carrying mercy and salvation
at 5 PM on a weekday—
spirals make the evening
lives were saved.
I was not burned, not hit,
not killed by imprecise hands
through the stop light.
And I need no one’s permission to stay in this
ever-state. Some did not make their way home
from that day, noise a permanent marker—
some, like me were on the edge
are still on the edge,
almost gone.
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