Glass Poetry Press

Volume Three Issue Two

Justin Dodd

The Accident

There's an anchor on my arm, three-days' growth on my face. I have a taste for the fist and the split lip. I'm a man. I still cannot care for myself. I give my real name. Coo: What's not remembered is not — ; consider our matched set. I'm driving into you. I'm wrecking. I'm calling this love. The charges'll be felony. The spinning police lights prelude an ambulance. You lose — sky through spring trees — a moment without word. Six more yellows and I'm brave.