and when it’s first reported there isn’t a name, only the bare bones of when— about 3:30—and where—near Hilltop Store—and pictures— small red car with the driver’s side caved in, hood twisted skyward in a mouth-gaped V, splayed across the right front of the truck. Troopers said that the woman’s car crossed the centerline and I imagine her, glancing at her sister’s picture of the newborn on her smartphone or reaching down to retrieve the groceries fallen to the car floor, never feeling the drift of the tires or sensing the way the distance from the new mown field slowly widened. Naugatuck River Review Winter/Spring 2017
Poems by Judy Kaber