I, too, have been the defective heart. Pulmonary arrhythmia,
another pulse off the beat;
I, too, have been the jackrabbit lying dead in the street,
turned grey fur to tire tracks, turned antlers to broken sticks,
I, too, swerve around roadkill. It’s just,
what’s the use of being dead if nobody recognizes you,
what’s the use of sitting there,
arms tucked beneath you, face stilled in silent reverie,
what is there left to do
When the headlights aren’t God but
another accident? I know these things. I know
that a dead body is still a body even if its bones are missing,
its name erased, I know
What it means to be roadkill when you were so close to the other side. Blindsided, thought
you were almost real again, thought accidents heal and
maybe the loss is temporary, thought
broken arms and band aids don’t fix bullet wounds but they might, thought
there’s a spark of light in everything thought cardiac arrest
and there’s a gateway to heaven in the car that ran over you, its siren was proclaiming,
you just missed it. So,
You remember that hearts beat like ba-dum,
the car runs over you like ba-dum and you’re left with
the smell of smoke and car exhaust ba-dum and
the sound of Exit 49B ba-dum and a fighting chance ba-dum ba-dum and
I, too, have been the lone wolf, all whimper, no beat. You see,
I’m so afraid of killing something that’s already dead because
I know what it’s like to feel things again,
to start hobbling without a pulse. I know
What it’s like to call your death an offering because
you don’t know how else to justify the pain.
So, jackrabbit lies down in the street, thinks about jumping over
the curb with all those headlights on the highway,
driving to the city.
In the distance, you remember sirens.
In the distance, you smell smoke.
By Sean Glatch
Sean Glatch is a high school senior living in the monotony of the Milwaukee suburbs. He is the author of his self-published poetry book 4:41 and is editor for the online publication Tongue Tied Mag. When he’s not drinking coffee, he’s usually worrying about the future and decaying with indecision. He’s got your back.