for Peter Liotta
The cat is a bag of broken plates.
The mother an eggshell unsteady
On its saucer. What star is that
By the moon tonight? She would
Not say. The great aunt shattered
By the pickup she puttered in front
Of, helicoptered to a last hour of wires
And tubes. Something shifts
In the sack of life and lights weaken,
Something sharp pokes through.
But you were young enough and nobody
Was ready to see you weakened but you.
Before the burst of flame met
The gas tank an explosive inkling
Of it had already set you alight.
I can never be in the seat beside
You and pull the wheel
Turning the tires from the brick wall,
I can never change your mind
Though you changed mine
But in any loved thing’s last moment
I hear your body turn as it always
Did, away from people and toward
Something in the twilight flying by.