Black Lake Boulevard

By Caitlin Upshall

parking lots emptied and window lampshades burning dust away
watching the eleventh, twelfth, fourteenth plagues sweep through New Testament cities
discriminating between mega churches and homeless encampments
bringing worshipers to a god who showers loves through healthcare
but performs miracles on reduced hours
at the free clinic downtown

*

returning from the first outing in weeks
my car pulls a respectable six feet plus four to the side
as the fire truck approaches
full lights no siren
I marvel that it catches me by surprise
when I look for the collision
born less than five minutes before I arrived
I see that the barrier between left and right lanes
has become a hurdle for a car that thought it could jump
or turn fast enough to outrun the curve
but there are no medals here for effort only police cars and firetrucks and no ambulances
even though we can see they need one
an ill-rested officer directing traffic debates telling us where to go
or asking why we are on the road at all

*

I measure the distance from where the collision begins and ends in police cars
five later still
full lights no siren
I stop at the next intersection and open my window
watch the scene in my rear-view mirror
tires crunching on cement echo as loud as *now cancelled* music festivals
I ignore the warnings not to touch faces
make a cross from my forehead to my chest
left side to right
pray first for life
second for health insurance
a man across the road uses FaceTime to show others the accident
I admire his social distancing

another firetruck arrives

quietly

Caitlin Upshall holds a B.A. in English from Western Washington University. Her work has been published in The Yellow Chair Review, The Sweet Tree Review, and Entropy. In her spare time, she enjoys reading scholarly articles about the Great Emu War.