The Crash

 /   /  By Emma Birches
Stone Soup Magazine
March/April 2002

By Mark Roberts

I can’t remember the crash,
Only closing my eyes,
A falling feeling rushing through me,
As if I were sinking under water.
But there was none, just rocks.

My eyes wouldn’t open.
I remember thinking this must be
What it’s like being dead.
I floated out of the ditch,
“Crawling like a cat,”
they told me,
And couldn’t feel myself.

The youngest one said,
“I thought you were dead,”
And the other,
“Will the eye ever grow back?”

Teeth chattering, feeling of ice
All over my body,
And the voice repeating,
“Don’t fall asleep, don’t fall asleep,”
I wanted to sleep the pain away.

I thought breaking bones
Would hurt more,
But my eye demanded attention.
Behind a swollen, deformed eye,
I still see swirling leaves,
Crossed branches of trees,
The flash of a strobe light,
And the crash, again and again.

My face has become
An ugly changing rainbow,
But inside I am the same as before.
Can you see me in all my colors?

The Crash Mark Roberts

Mark Roberts, 10
Windsor, California

About the Author

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