Rachel Nolan: 3 Poems

(CW: death, hit-and-run violence)

IN WHICH DEATH WAS IN A HURRY

after Emily Dickinson

               When the driver came forward it was Death himself kindly stopping a little too late and spilling his beer when he hit you head-on, making the horses rear and almost popping a tire on your studded jean jacket. A huge fan, you bummed a smoke and handed him a Lagunitas from your backpack. You took your seat next to him in the carriage and shook asphalt from your hair. Somehow Death winked when you asked if they’d bury you in a suit. You laughed a laugh that reminded him of home when you took the bottle and pried the cap off with your molars, flashing teeth only the Devil could have crafted, leaning back and asking if he recognized the handiwork. Death did not have to say anything and off you went towards eternity.

​GOD DIDN'T WANT YOU

He wanted you dead. He wanted the dead stuff— 
          your hair, your nails, the rest of your body no longer
​          a body. The angels took turns wearing you,
​          ​thought they looked good, pretended to be Lucifer.

​Your flesh was convincing, all red and tire marks that looked like ash.
          They laughed
                              and laughed.
                    They were efficient, used every part of you.
                    Nothing left for the living. No scraps
                    except they threw the heart out.
                    ​Yours or mine?

​It is not easy to confront God, which you now know.
          When I did it, He grinned, baring your teeth.
          From Him came your voice. From His/Your mouth
          ​came my truth:

​                    ​I want you back, any part,
                              but the afterlife
                              ​is a gluttonous, selfish thing.

THE RUT

​Sometimes I found myself hoping
you meant to do it,

​that there existed a split second
in which you made the decision

​to jump under the tires
and leave us all in the rearview— 

​I guess this is still possible. I conjured
some grand conspiracy in which money

​or mass amounts of drugs were involved,
something punk as hell,

​but this was an accident.
He thought he saw horns, antlers.

​Maybe he swore he took out the devil
and woke up spooning Lucifer.

​The article said they found you around the same time— 
seven hours later under the guardrail.

​This has to be false. I refuse to believe anyone,
even the universe, pushed you aside like that.

​I hope you were not conscious and lying there
mistaking his brakes for the tunnel,

​wondering why it was red like the pavement
and getting so small. My heart shatters

​with each possibility, adding to the roadside debris
something less reflective than fiberglass

​but just as sharp. This poem is about
a dislodged headlight and a brake pedal. Guilt

​fuels many things: a confession,
a lie. None of this matters.

​There is no wave of relief
when I read the headline. I only wonder

​if you froze,
if your eyes grew larger at the light,

​if they reflected anything back at him
just before impact. If he slept well that night.

Rachel Nolan holds a BA from Hampshire College and is currently a freelance poetry editor living in Boston, Massachusetts. Rachel’s work has recently appeared in HOOT Review, Second Chance Lit, and GLITCHWORDS, among others, and was a finalist for Heavy Feather Review's Zachary Doss Friends in Letters Memorial Fellowship in 2020. You can find Rachel managing Millennial Pulp literary magazine or on Twitter @bigpoetrynerd.