To the Rescue Crew
Ephraim Scott Sommers
There is a beige Chrysler. 
There is a hole.
We are the dead siblings, frozen
Mid-argument in the trunk
Of the Chrysler: the brittleness
Of cracked windshields after a season of debris.
After a tornado in Tuscaloosa, there are sleeves to roll up,
But not ours.
Wash us. Stuff us with coat hangers and guitar strings.
Bend out of us an embrace.
There is a hole where our city once was.
Where my sister and I once were, a hole.
