Numbers

 

I count the hours until bedtime, weary afternoons
idling at traffic lights. I count the days until the weekend
with my son’s cartoons, my Sunday crossword.

A slam shakes the car, spins us round,
I see white — the airbag. The moment stretches
then snaps back, the road gone, a river born, afloat.

“Mommy!” I hold my son, hold tight to his little limbs,
our car swirling round, waters rising in  grey sullies.
There’s a driver in the next car — help us!

What’s wrong with him?
He screams nothing, the windows
shut in sound and death…

On my right, there’s a young girl gripping the steering,
her head melting, a flesh candle —
I press my son’s face close, huddled in the front seat.

“It’s ok, it’s ok, we’re going to be fine.”
I try not to hitch my breath.
I need to learn these new rules.

Another car, a family clawing at the windows
their skin ravaged, black marks blossoming
on their arms and faces.

I recall the mouse last summer,
left outside, a feast for maggots,
disappearing faster than innocence.

There’s nothing but debris and swells.
I get the sun roof open, pull us up.
The bottom of the car floods.

I see our groceries floating inside —
there’s a soggy cereal box, some bread,
and a chicken breast. It disintegrates in black froth.

There’s malice in the water, once torpid
now awakened. I swivel, I hope, something –
but nothing – to climb, to hold, oh please…

I can hear screams now. I try to hum and stroke his hair.
I look down — the water is up past the seat cushions.
He whimpers, clings to me.

I remember the red pill, a painless sleep.
I make him swallow. Count, the seven short years
my son had. Count, the minutes left.

How many seconds for the pill to kick in?
Count, the words I say to him, his drowsy blinks,
the heartbeats between us.

Count…