December 16, Six Years Later


Amanda Auchter, Poetry

My sister calls to tell the story again:
a dark road, swerve of headlights, how

she arched through the night air, the wheels
that kept spinning, a far red siren. Each detail

pieced from accident photographs, bystander
reports, late-night cop shows. I listen

to the story and stir vegetables
in oil on the stove. I want to say

you died in the field for four minutes. You
do not remember what you remember.


I want to tell her of the bag of effects
handed to me at the hospital: the blood-

stained bracelet, the brown sandals
wreathed in damp grass. I want to tell her

of the hospital room, its little window
frosted with cold, how I went

behind a curtain, placed my face in my hands,
but I do not. I wait for the ending

of this story, for her to run out of memory
of tall grass, car horns. I wait

to sit alone in the kitchen’s slant shadows,
for the silence to break inside my throat.