Her loved ones were certain
that some essence of her
remained; some energy
floating beside the bits of
burnt rubber strewn about
the roadside rye grass.
so they built a shrine for
all the rubberneckers to
think about, wondering
if they had caught the story
on the evening news,
wondering if the traffic
had been halted for hours
Would the symbol, and
we have all seen many,
be better served in some
backyard garden, on some
private pedestal far away
from the roar of diesel
and care less commuters?
Why erect a memory where
there was only horror? I
don't think she would have
remained where the jaws
of death were so routinely
operated, where she was
separated from gears and
pistons, and pronounced
bit by bloody bit.