Bell Choir on South Street
In my mind I can play it all back in slow motion;
slow enough to trace the exactness,
each angle and spider-webbing crack,
every sharp-edged shard of crystalling glass.
If I watch carefully enough, I might even catch
the prismic moment that must have occurred between
the windshield’s crack and the fall of its mass:
an instant of millions of rainbows,
colors divided like individual notes in a chord,
throwing the spectrum through the air like confetti.
Even the tiniest fragments caught the light
and carried it; powdered glass like glitter,
like grace notes, a pixie dust puff over everything.
Only after it hit did I even see the SUV
swoop in suddenly, great white bird of prey,
on my pigeon gray car, side-impacting,
carnal screeching, bending the frame around
the shield that burst into billions of tinklings.
Imagine that sound stretched out, slowed down,
if the sounds of tearing metal, popping plastic,
squealing tires and screaming people could all
be filtered out. It might have been quite beautiful really,
a slow shower of sharp, shining raindrops falling,
clinking, chiming harmonies, tinkling in time,
like tiny bells.
Jennifer Turrell lives off-the-grid on a ranch outside of Flagstaff, AZ with her husband, daughter, dog and a variety of other animals. Her work has appeared in Main Chanel Voices, Midway Journal, The Red Tree, Verve and Teseract.