A Chisel and a Rock

They say He created heaven, earth, and mystery:
The jungle lion’s guttural roar
The celestial twinkling of stars

Tell me
Where is your soul? And
does it move with you like the moon—quarter,
half, full of grief and gratitude?

Tell me
Who created your Creator? And,
does He see
the tiny grain of your face?

Tell me
Did He tell you
What purpose you serve?
What fever you can cure?

Or, did He leave you here
with the riddle, a chisel,
and a rock?

Losing Control

It was the accident.
It was the sound of metal crushed,
and my skull on the windshield.
It was the other driver
skidding on wet pavement,
meeting me only because
I left the family party early,
drove too slow or too fast and so
arrived at 7:05 p.m. for the accident.

It was the accident
that made me cry again. Made me
rock back and forth as I did when you died.
Even steering, I couldn’t stop the white
Mazda and couldn’t stop you,
dead too soon.

It was the accident
that made me take my hands
off the wheel.
Made me lift my palms
open and wide to the glass.
Made me give up
control I never had.

Annie Breitenbucher is a technical writer living in Minneapolis; she previously worked for the Star Tribune Newspaper where she covered the sports of running and triathlon. Her first poetry collection, Fortune, was published by the Laurel Poetry Collective. She has also had work published in two anthologies: Beloved on the Earth: 150 Poems of Grief and Gratitude (Holy Cow! Press) and The Wind Blows, The Ice Breaks: Poems of Loss and Renewal by Minnesota Poets.