Hard after the spill to again
pick the motorcycle up, to go back into
the elephant grass, the air inside
green but for the oil, hard
to get up sometimes, even after
a year, each bone un-
centered, stricken sideways, airless
beside the fallen. Go, lay
the bike back in its broken slick,
wave the cars on, something hot
sparks your face, her cry off
left, there, like
sex, you’ve forgotten her
wrist, go toward it. Tall grass, hairpin,
adrenaline, what makes it so
fast, how her hands end up inside you,
how this is supposed to save you?
-Nick Flynn
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