The two-toned Olds swinging sideways out of
the drive， the bone-white gravel1 kicked up in
a shot， my mother in the deathseat half
out the door， the door half shutshe's being
pushed or wants to jump， I don't remember.
The Olds is two kinds of green， hand-painted，
and blows black smoke like a coal-oil fire. I'm
stunned2 and feel a wind， like a machine， pass
through me， through my heart and mouth； I'm standing3
in a field not fifty feet away， the
wheel of the wind closing the distance.
Then suddenly the car sTOPs and my mother
falls with nothing， nothing to break the fall . . .
One of those moments we give too much to，
like the moment of acknowledgment of
betrayal4， when the one who's faithless has
nothing more to say and the silence is
terrifying since you must choose between
one or the other emptiness. I know
my mother's face was covered black with blood
and that when she rose she too said nothing.
Language is a darkness pulled out of us.
But I screamed that day she was almost killed，
whether I wept or ran or threw a stone，
or stood stone-still， choosing at last between
parents， one of whom was driving away.