I don’t know if it saved me or just failed
to kill me, but the airbag nailed with force,
like two hooves of a large and angry horse,
or love: I hunched, both cushioned and impaled.
The ribs will heal. The sternum should re-knit.
The car is written off. Just so much steel
and shattered plastic, bleeding toxic fumes
and coolant, radiating toxic plumes;
it’s destined for the carmic ferrous wheel,
recycled into next year’s model’s bits.
The only thing that flashed before my eyes
was someone else’s shiny, silver car
and one thought choking me, smoke and surprise:
I’m still alive and don’t know where you are.