Sally Quon
Wild Horses

Blowing snow, waves, and drifts,
ribbons across the highway.
Vision obscured in dim headlights,
tar-black night.

He didn’t see
the wild horses,

And I, six years old,
in the cool, dark back seat
remember…

scream of brakes,

spinning, spinning,

thump and shatter.

Powerful leg punctures windshield--
my brother’s head, a narrow miss.

In a nearby farmhouse
wrapped in blankets,
tears
still drying on my face,

I jump

at the sound
of gunshots in the dark.