Wreck

Firemen cut the car open like a cake but when

they reached through the windshield to pull me out

they instead grabbed handfuls of confetti.

After the last of that came the poultry—

the rubber chickens and ducks that moaned

in a chorus as they were scooped into the men’s arms

as if they dreaded for their lives to be saved.

Then came the great men of history—Caesar,

Alexander the Great, Napoleon Bonaparte, Ben Franklin,

together with their wives, who they led carefully

to be sure their skirts didn’t catch

on the jagged glass. Then my boyfriend was pulled out, shrugging.

Then came the mast of a tall ship,

practically as much timber as the woods

off the road the car had flipped into. The firemen took turns

trying to stand it up like a tree, and, laughing, posed for a photo

next to it. Then they pulled out my youth,

at which point they became self-conscious

about their prior merriment and a silence fell.

They pulled out heaven and hell

but couldn’t get a good handle on either.

Couldn’t manage fear but they did

pull out my plans for the future, one by one,

admiring how they shone like coins.

Really, so much was salvaged

that when they stuffed the last

thing they could fit into the ambulance

and shut the door without me,

I could hardly blame them. Sorry, no more room,

they said. Oh no, I don’t mind, don’t for a moment worry

that I mind, I said. With all that

in the car with me, I was starting to think I’d never be alone.