It was night, it had rained, there were pieces of cars and br half-cars strewn, it was still, and bright, br a woman was lying on the highway, on her back, br with her head curled back and tucked under her shoulders br so the back of her head touched her spine br between her shoulder-blades, her clothes br mostly accidented off, and her br leg gone, a long bone br sticking out of the stub of her thigh— br this was her her abandoned matter, br my mother grabbed my head and turned it and br clamped it into her chest, between br her breasts. My father was driving—not sober br but not in this accident, we’d approached it out of br neutral twilight, broken glass br on wet black macadam, like an underlying br midnight abristle with stars. This was br the world—maybe the only one. br The dead woman was not the person br my father had recently almost run over, br who had suddenly leapt away from our family br car, jerking back from death, br she was not I, she was not my mother, br but maybe she was a model of the mortal, br the elements ranged around her on the tar— br glass, bone, metal, flesh, and the family.