Triage

not one of us was hurt,
the car’s bent frame
leaning heavily over the edge,
its exhaust still sputtering
a putt-putt tune,
windshield wipers furiously
beating a window
completely cracked, gone,
yet
wipers flailed at invisible
water droplets,
and ambulances arrived
on the bridge, bright red lights,
seen for miles,
reflected off dark waters
down the bayou toward
the smell of fish, but we leaned on
pillows of light cast
against the police
car, a dark shroud of hope,
our quest for life saved
to breathe through
oxygen masks,
not so much for life,
not so much for fear,
but mostly for our
conception, and we
thanked out mothers
for giving birth,
thanked our fathers for that
life spurt that might have
but didn’t crack this tumbling
night, our own car
flipped over
in murky water.