Because She Wasn't Me

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic

Saving early poetry


By Alexander Guinevere Kern

Copyright A. Kern January, 1987


He parked the ambulance,

Shut its red, revolving eye,

Cut the siren, stared,

Saw my pumpkin-colored car,

Rolled sideways, wheels spinning,

Like a dreaming dog’s legs.

Tanglewaves of blonde hair,

An arm flung out the window,

Blood scrolling downward,

Over the sparkleknot of diamond,

And puddling ruby under

Her white, swan hand.

He said his legs wouldn’t work,

Rain spackling needle-cold,

He smelled scorched rubber,

Metallic heat. Smoke hissing

In the wind. Heard the jabble

Of onlookers, their horror sounds.

He wept soundlessly, praying for me:

“Let it not be her, ah God, not her.”

Grammar all wrong, his

Anthropological God all wrong

For fervent pleading on my behalf,

My God a Cosmic set of equations.

For me her death no less an anguish

Just because she wasn’t me, this

Young blonde who also bought

A pumpkin-colored car and

Was cherished by a man

With big-diamond money.

Yet because he realizes

That I am not the victim (this time)

My EMT friends crosses himself

Over and over, murmuring his

Peculiar, gratitude prayer, “Thank God

It isn’t her.”

Still, I felt cloud number nine

Fine all day, after he related

This story to me, Proof that

To someone my existence

Mattered enough for grief.

I did not even ask her name.

Submitted: May 18, 2018

© Copyright 2020 RexMundi555'.-. All rights reserved.

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