Primary Witness

My left hand digging in my pocket. Three days ago a
Chevy parked outside the garage, waiting for the stars to
bleed into the ready ground. The clouds never rise: they
film the skies white. My hand scooping the wind, shoveling
light to make way. Then the mechanic, the shaking leg, the
loving familiar pain. The truck coughs final. Every arm
snapped—even young—heals slow. But we salvaged scrap.
The heavy hand, the girl. Today, the new sky. The first seen
cloud, the sun going quick. My pockets shrank fast. My
father buried far, my tiny hands big. Sun’s coming, sore
eyes. Don’t look yet.