Tucked in her shell of gutsy metal,
an errant art teacher spun
my car into a snow bank.
We shook after the collision,
the grab handle, Jesus, pried loose,
sun visor dangling like a hangnail
from the inside roof. The glovebox
archives our road lives, talismen
from preschool classes, cassette tapes
and their magnetic cellophanes spooling
loose, expired disability placards lodged
behind the tissue packets. The passenger
side door was crinkled, discarded-
candy-wrapper-style, and the back of
my head felt like mayhem and grind.
She didn’t see me turning right, despite
my right of way, the snow-glare busy
against the road. Blame the blind spots
and sunshine for all the bodywork I need.

Alisha Goldblatt is an English teacher and writer living in Portland, Maine with her two wonderful children and one lovely husband. She has published poems in the Comstock Review, River Heron Review, Burningword Literary Journal, and many others, and essays in Stonecoast Review, MothersAlwaysWrite, and several other spaces. Alisha writes whenever she can and gets published when she’s lucky.