“The Good Samaritan” by Nancy Christopherson
The Good Samaritan
in sparkly red canvas sneakers
and black-rimmed jacket
stops to take the pulses of the children
thrown from the overturned SUV
and guesses no car seat restraints.
Steam rises in mist. She tries
mouth-to-mouth on the first child,
a small girl about four — nothing.
Foamy red upchuck, eyes open wide.
She goes to the next child,
a boy around ten. He is blue.
She has arrived too late. If only
she had not stopped to tie her
shoelaces twice or to grab the gift she
carries. The mother’s face has
blossomed into the shattered front
glass, her neck a broken clear-stemmed
goblet someone threw after the argument
stopped — the same argument as
always. No shoulder straps.
This isn’t about rules. It’s not about
anything except the young
woman who stopped to help. She
takes her smartphone from her right hip
pocket and dials, its small screen
the only blue light in the dark night.
There is dirt flung around from the trenches
the wheels dug as the car lost its grip
and the roof collapsed inward like a cave.
The engine rests beyond a dark stump.
Not even tail lights. Little rag dolls,
as if posing for portraits or
something, but the little limbs strangle
and won’t hold a shape. How she could have
have left earlier but then stooped to tie
her boots beforehand, before she stepped
out her front door for the party.
The way in which this became the party,
but then not at all, not even close to
the same party.
Photo Credit: Staff