The two-toned Olds swinging sideways out of

    the drive， the bone-white gravel¹ kicked up in

    a shot， my mother in the deathseat half

    out the door， the door half shut——she's being

    pushed or wants to jump， I don't remember.

    The Olds is two kinds of green， hand-painted，

    and blows black smoke like a coal-oil fire. I'm

    stunned² and feel a wind， like a machine， pass

    through me， through my heart and mouth； I'm standing³

    in a field not fifty feet away， the

    wheel of the wind closing the distance.

    Then suddenly the car stops and my mother

    falls with nothing， nothing to break the fall . . .

    One of those moments we give too much to，

    like the moment of acknowledgment of

    betrayal⁴， when the one who's faithless has

    nothing more to say and the silence is

    terrifying since you must choose between

    one or the other emptiness. I know

    my mother's face was covered black with blood

    and that when she rose she too said nothing.

    Language is a darkness pulled out of us.

    But I screamed that day she was almost killed，

    whether I wept or ran or threw a stone，

    or stood stone-still， choosing at last between

    parents， one of whom was driving away.