Skipping
By Ash Bowen

I have always loved to skip.
I did so to the field where the flyer
crashed into the silo, spilling
oats everywhere in the wilderness
below it. Blood slackened the limbs
of the pilot, whose eyes were still
alive, rolling side to side over
his mouth, his tongue, raspberry
to a point, pleading with itself
to say something about getting up
for help. I leapt over the rope
of weeds between us, careful
not touch him though it seemed
he needed it. His fingers clawed
at what I can only imagine
he thought were crows coming
to peck among the oats.
My father said he'd seen something
like it in the war, that clawing
way death carries its own relief.
Mother wouldn't hear of it
at the table. She carried our plates
to the porch. Families had gathered
at the steps. They wanted to know
what I'd seen, to hear me tell it slow,
not to skip anything.

for Jack Heflin

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