Close to her school the lights of the ambulance
splay across the interior of the car. I see
the new shades of my daughter recycle
across her opened face. There is a car in front
of the ambulance, nothing we can see wrong
with it except for the not moving. It is angled in
the turning lane like an invasive sunray into a quiet
room, a thorn among stalks. The bicycle lies
much farther away, the front wheel contorted
around the wooden pole emerging from the concrete.
The back wheel is gone, as if slid in some
mischief’s pocket. Chain loose and resting
on the sidewalk. There are no people among
the macabre, unless you count the ghosts. My daughter
asks what happened and I lie the little lie.
I don’t know what happened, love.
I say it again and again like a chant
or a wish or something to fill the air
until the lights light up someone else’s sky
and can do nothing more than chase us.