Neither Rising Nor Falling

One Night

The car crossed two lanes of traffic

and a grass median before plowing

head-on into me, killing my wife,

unborn child, and myself. Before

I died I touched the shoulder

of a policeman, felt the sure strength

of his muscles, heard the only word

he spoke, “Jesus,” and I smiled

because I stopped believing in him

long ago. He mistook my smile

for something positive and not listless

irony, and I tried to correct him,

but my throat stopped. Red lights.

Blue lights. Star’s gases. I walked home.

My wife wandered off into a river

to give birth. I began calling my friends:

“We are all dead,” I said into the phone.

I let them cry or exalt in turn, taking

note. I didn’t know it would be this

simple. I slipped into midnight robe,

poked holes in a black sheet, tore

into a loaf of bread. Wandered off
yeast-heavy neither rising nor falling.