By: Janna Vought

When I hit the windshield,
I think about laundry
in the dryer, chicken for dinner thawing
on the counter—my daughters.
I land in the space between
the nothing, tangled up
in my headphone wires.
My body shatters, pieces of me
scatter alongside a Doritos bag, Coke can,
tiny shard of broken glass.
Time means nothing.

Pain explodes
in my belly. Blood drains from me
like sand from a shoe.
Spill, spread, bleed from great wounds.
Bones soften; flesh loses life.

(My number’s up)
Death tastes like dirty copper.
Not now.

I’m going down.
Not yet.

Gone in an instant, face down
in dirt, dying, dying. Dead.
The final moments, my two selves
collide, entangled in a mutilation.
No one knows
my name, chalk outline
on the sidewalk, bloodstain on the road.

Light edges the window,
phosphorescence of the body
dying.
A beautiful exit, emerging alone
into the white, magical universe.
It’s always someone’s last day.
Death came for me
driving a maroon SUV.