There was a siren in the night.
Blood stained asphalt.
My mother screaming
“Oh my God.”
While Irene and I
Huddled near the shoulder.
“We shouldn’t have run;
I thought we could make it.”
Merry Christmas, everybody.
Hospital lights blinked,
Machines yawned.
I was tired too, but more angry
Than anything else.
I didn’t want to be there.
Not with all the patronizing
Church ladies,
Swarming in with their
Condolences and flowers.
I often wished it had been me,
Me that had been hit,
Me that had almost died.
I wonder if Irene ever felt the same?
I wonder what it was like to watch
Her mom struggle for two years in recovery?
Irene always said life was hell growing up.
Her mom never really loved her.
I wonder if the accident changed that?
When Irene’s mom got hit,
My brain told me it was my fault.
That I shouldn’t have yelled “Go!”.
Years later, Irene’s brain told her
That she likes girls.
And I have always wondered
What those two things have in common.
What if I am the reason Irene
Decided to cross the road?
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