The Bends

We rolled down a long pebbled driveway, in reverse

Truck bed easing around a blind corner. Witnessed,

a car at easement, parked, teetering over an embankment

Headlights pointed a cross spired into a

patch of grass at lowest bend of ditch.

Illuminated, a woman folded over the two nailed boards,

shaking among floating lamp lit dust. Hair fell forward.

Dropped red and orange flowers rested against cross wood,

both her knees, dug into mud.

.

A man leaned against the car perched upon an embankment,

interior light dipping down slopes of grass to pool in the lowest bend of ditch. His hat tipped,

His gaze stretched in opposite direction over an evening desert framed by navy mesas.

.

Our truck rolled by, hands restrained so as not to press against the window.

To be in a roadside ditch.

thrown in grief, hung over a cross.

On Thanksgiving.

.

I returned to that spot the next day. Parked around

the bend. Scratched boots over gravel to announce my arrival

I laid a chain of crayon-colored flowers at cross’s feet. Ran fingers over the engravement.

.

Marny Spruce. Born in ’72

.

I promised to one day tell this story.

Comfort is in comfort transferred

If I could only turn around, replay the moment,

I'd have stopped. Stepped out.

Lay hands to her shoulders

and kneel beside in silence.

.

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