On a Car Crash during the Coronavirus Pandemic

Trenta Sei On a Car Crash during the Coronavirus Pandemic
By J.C. Scharl

Coming home from the gutted grocery store 
today we skidded on ice and crashed against
the snowy bank, still pristine from the blizzard,
and in the screeching pause before the hit, 
I felt in my bones the coming blow: no dodging
this collision, which has always been waiting. 

Today we skidded on ice and crashed. Against
this, gripping the wheel to ease my shaking,
I balance the good: we’re still safe, at least 
so far. The car took the hit. At waking 
so abruptly, my young son starts to cry:
his lungs still clear. Another good, I sigh. 

The snowy bank, still pristine from the blizzard, 
now has scraps of shattered plastic scattered 
like accents around the scream of tire marks.
Even now, we’re alone. This battered
country road isn’t a destination. 
Here, it’s easy to maintain self-isolation.

But in the screeching pause before the hit 
I saw at last right through the long deception 
of the gross American conceit 
that in our separate cars, the vast dissection
of our suburbs, somehow we’re safe; somehow
nothing taps us that we don’t allow;

 I felt in my bones the coming blow—no dodging
it forever—as I think I always 
have, persisting nonetheless in living 
as if I am safe even from being afraid,
as if by lifelong practice of avoidance  
I’ll learn to swerve and miss my own decease,

that collision that has always been waiting
and is content to keep on waiting down 
some road I haven’t driven, but will. Knowing 
I’ll die means I’m alive. It means, for now,
my son hugs me and sighs. His lungs are clear. 
Another good. Another day of awe, of fear. 

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J.C. Scharl
Poet & Cultural Critic

Photography by Raffo Perez