With Her Shadows

I call you Saturday night
after the accident. I want
to tell you about the other
driver’s face, how pale
and stiff she looked,
how my car spun
in all directions
like Man Ray’s Rope Dancer.

            *

You said it was stark,
the way the colors just
sat on top of each other.
We stood in front
of the painting. It took you
a minute to find her.

            *

            The woman’s unconscious,
            like it’s my fault she ran the red light.

            *

The colors are her
shadows, I try
to tell you. It’s kind
of funny that way.

            *

I collect shards of glass
from my comforter. I shouldn’t
have laid down when I got home
but I was so tired. I want
to tell you. The other driver—
her neck stretched out,
eyes closed, mouth open.
The face jagged and familiar.
(No answer.)
 
 

Texting My Father Outside Floyd’s 99

Heard about the break up. Love you,
he says. Let me know if you need anything.

Thanks, I say, but I mean I’m sorry I’m not married
yet. Once he told me: You can’t leave a room unless

you know where the doorknob is, but I couldn’t tell
if he meant literally. I stare into the barbershop

because I’ve never seen a man get a haircut. I don’t learn
much, only the sound three electric razors can make

at once. I type: I need a lot of things. But I won’t send it
because I know he’s tried.
 
 
 
Eloisa Amezcua is an Arizona native. She completed the MFA program at Emerson College and works in Cambridge, MA. She’s received scholarships from the NY State Summer Writers Institute, the Bread Loaf Translator’s Conference and the Vermont College of Fine Arts Post-Graduate Workshop. You can find her at www.eloisaamezcua.com.