by Nancy Flynn
hemoglobin red most lurid hue
that scar
come by one night in the 90s riding your no-light bike
smashed a month until 20 Monday night football
(Jello shots?) how does it happen? what
makes a boy fly into a car?
windshield crystals slicing through lip
not a look you desire in a family photo
to this day turning angles that restore
your face leading man (empirical)
low-pitch rumble your voice ramped-up
toward jarred gangland sweet that summer
every hoop court tar-taped nothing
patched, only play never the payday always
hazard hazard hazard
postures potholes pop/guns
how near a face can get and yet
the maximum son in the flesh
(after he’s tanned it forever)
why didn’t it peel? because mothers
cling like lichen swab the rash
tweeze the miniscule grit
eviscerating the high-beam glare
inside then sinking no, sunk
my sorry love-shot stone
your boyish lostness
what did you feel behind your matte mask
tethering to gauze who’s dissing you ugly?
she tries to recall the ranting
in the emergency room
from his drunken mangled mouth
instead that echo
the man in the car who cried
Did I kill him?