Car Wreck on Christmas Eve
Standing in heels on double-yellow lines—
I stared at the mirror of rain-slick asphalt—
And remembered the dashed line
Inside that windowless church in Mexico.
Fabricated color of flesh,
You, too, must have been looking at Jesus.
Don’t they require that of men like you, Father,
I chose the cold, the rain,
Mistaking you flagging me down
No—it was just the weight of rain and wind
As much as any named agency.
You would have pressed a red, wet face against
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