Downed in Kentucky
by Nancy Bailey Miller
One moonless chill eve,
a six-seater plane and a seven-year-old.
Blood on her dress, glasses lost,
she stumbles. She lurches to leave
metal strewn, mangled wings,
splintered shards, gas fumes.
In the distance one pinpoint,
a yellow porch light, beyond woods,
tangled brambles, mud pasture, rail fence.
Does she remember unbuckling her seat belt?
Crawling out over luggage, the legs of her father,
her mother, her sister, a cousin?
No stars and no coat. One sock on her left foot,
she inches toward that farmer’s porch light—
quivering, steady—one speck in the night.
Copyright © 2017 by Nancy Bailey Miller.