by Elizabeth McMunn-Tetangco
On our way north,
red brake lights
slam like doors.
We see debris
before we see anything
else:
a half-rolled license
plate, glass stars
ground into dirt.
The car is smashed
in on itself—rain
streaks along each
shattered window. A man
bends
down with his hands flat
on his thighs
to see inside,
his shoulders
tight. Someone has put out
flares.
The thing I can’t
believe
is the man’s MAGA
hat, clean like it is new,
holding the rain up
off his face.
I have to read it twice
to get it’s not
a joke, and then
it aches
and I’m ashamed,
the afterimage of the hat
and the wrecked car
drifting with me
all day long
like floating leaves.
Elizabeth McMunn-Tetangco lives in California and co-edits
One Sentence Poems. Her chapbooks
Various Lies and
Lion Hunt are available from Finishing Line Press and forthcoming from Plan B Press, respectively.
