Accident

The way the bones

get loose mid-flight

the felted stretch

of time—one long

delicious second

and always

little beacons

God incarnated

to a yellow streetlight

feathered into

wings of angels

paramedics in crimson

twirling halos

and a memory that folds

and creases

in your breast pocket

so wonder as you lift

laundry from a washer

or turn your new car

in a flash of headlights

up the driveway

wonder why the hell

you’re still here.

Lisa Ortiz