I was wearing my brother’s pants
when I got in the accident. The denim was broken in
to where it felt like my own skin.
In the right hand pocket was a mala,
prayer beads made of aquamarine,
made by one of my best friends.
In little black shelf above the gearshift
was a ring made by another dear friend,
a protective crystal glued to a metal band.
The rips in the knees were the first things I saw
through the swirling white smoke of the airbag.
As I sat on a bench nearby waiting for the police
and looking at the passenger side, completely crushed in,
the beads slid through my damp palm.
The ring lay exactly where I’d left it
when I went through the front seat
picking possessions out of broken glass.
How powerful, to wear each other
over our own bodies.
How lucky we are,
being delivered each day by hands we trust
into a sudden and dangerous world.