• I. Him


    There were kaleidoscopes hues
    on the broken windshield
    and I was lost in the display:
    eyes saucer wide that lost their spoon
    a long time ago, watching the movie
    flick in those fiber fragments.

    Images of my shaky hands
    clung onto a chap's trousers
    and skin shavings littered the dashboard.
    I'd rather cry my eyes out at the image of Christ
    being whipped with a barbed scourge
    in the Mel Gibson's Passion
    then see my husband's brain scatters
    on the hood of the vehicle.

    "Jesus is a regret that doesn't--"
    give any justice with my mind stuck
    on that last cheeky comment and limbo.
    Distant ringing began
    long after the cracked webbing frame
    swallowed my husband's convulsing body.
    ( He smelled like cockroaches
    and McDonald's recycled grease ).

    His skin was clammy in my grasp,
    but even with my mind was still stuck
    back in motion picture land,
    the credits to his life had already rolled.
    Pasted on the cracked window,
    my Xerox color-copy counterpart kept
    gazing in anticipation for a sequel
    to ruin the blockbuster hit of
    the evening.


    II. Her


    God was a screwed-up director that evening;
    his cigarette clouds parted so streaks
    from the half-moon unveiled a wailing babe
    in the rear-view mirror behind me.
    rinnng-- wah!--WAH!
    The ringing cleared from my ears,
    letting the child's howls kick in my mother's instinct.

    My outstretched fingers dove around
    to the blubbering babe--
    just out of reach when the seat-belt
    strap tightened around the baby's neck.

    The dead five month old
    is the perfect premiere poster then;
    eyes shut innocently and body bundled
    in sugar pink fleece.

    My eyes were wet black spiders
    of mascara when the shock wears off,
    crawling off my cheeks and into my lips,
    tasting of salted disappointment
    and watered-down disbelief.

    I wasn't ready when Mr. DeMille did
    his close-up to my puffy cheeks.
    My unbelieving expression
    seemed to portray a bed-wetting realization
    that I just had a near-death experience
    but it seemed like any other dramatic cinematic scene;

    I was the leading-lady and only one alive.


    III. Myself


    I was in the car for three hours
    when a car finally whooshed by
    and saw the broken rail,
    crunched and mangled.

    They called 911 and soon paramedics came
    onto the set to dismantle the props,
    carrying me from a scene of carnage.

    Heaven decided to say "cut"
    when my glazed eyes see one thing
    that is planted in the windshield;
    the Oscar winner on the red-carpet
    frightened and alone with the
    ambulance lights like cameras.

    Flashing brightly, capturing me
    with the roygbiv spots hanging in the air.