George Frederick Miehle

Close Call






what's this crescent on my forehead? a kiss
from Shiva? or the only living memorial
to a dead Satellite 1974 Plymouth wagon
one V-8 equals 2 meta-4s
seaweed green--hiziki, wakame, nori
with soba noodles in pleasant bundles of
japanese mindfulness, no advertising required.
as she plows forward ignoring the curve
on a blown tire, sidewalls patched
from drunken adolescent slashings
against an insensitive father,
no broken glass, no seat belt, no stitches,
no doctor, no insurance, no plastic imagery,
just chewed comfrey leaves
slapped on the contusion, a few months of
confusion, be-stunned on rocky cows' pasture
both our scars left of centre,
big circular cavity in her grill,
her loins wrapped around that massive pole
so flagrantly--what a thrill!

© Poetry.com