All Apologies to Nas

William Evans


but the sunset be fallin' through
                    the windshield like a new blood
and I be trying to climb the speed bumps
slow to keep us                    from expiring
along with the day. The little
girl in the back seat is silent as the sky
that took my grandmother into its
bottomless jaw. I can see          how this
looks like death, where a shut-off siren
makes us believe that a fire
is no longer burning. But I guess, the soft burial
and rise of an exhausted child          feels
like mending the body back together.
And if I can't believe that a sea turned
red under the retreating sun doesn't
have room for
          something to emerge
from its fluid teeth, then I'm not sure
what the point of waking up is. We
arrive home and I let the          car live
for a while in the driveway because
the little girl still hasn’t risen. Though
this be the cousin of death,          I know
          the promise of rising again,
the finches waiting to peck her awake.