Incant

Can’t use the fire emoji, or the heart in flames.

Can’t tell you what it means if an ambulance arrives 

and doesn’t leave. Can’t unsee

the things I dream, the mundane scenes of life

safely flooded, going under. Can’t tell you 

how long between pain and unconsciousness

in flame, can’t say I didn’t ask

the question of the expert in his white jacket, 

Dr. F—, photographs on a life-sized screen

of someone carried far from me

in the heat, so far I cannot    ever

reach, the man’s not-face I want to see—

to see is it he who always screams in my—

my dreams that are not dreams waking me 

by my son’s hand, his face close and soft and real,

all the baby skin the life in him—how good

to be alive and still and still-real too, near him,

to find the smoke was never in this room—

Can’t say the smoke’s not somewhere in my chest though, 

trapped breath (his) last breath—not palimpsest, not letting go, 

find the man in any man a certain height, a certain gait  

because I can’t see straight, exhale, keep it together—even now

years later, pass a white van by a car accident,

and the child asks, Do you think everyone is ok?

Can lie, can say yes, can accelerate.

Avert your eyes, I tell the child. Jaw set

steel trap. People are there who will help.

But what help? What kind

of help? What about what can’t—

what cannotnotnot be helped? What if help can’t—

can’t help? Child exhales and I

                                                  catch the breath. Hold 

the car to the road by grip alone. Eyes closed-open. 

Count the senses two through five. 

Can not look back. Can drive. Can not reply.

Here in the ghost room in the car, 

Dr. F— says to mother-of-deceased:

Avert your eyes. And she looks high and wide 

like archways might be held in office ceiling-skies.

I can now look at 

(can’t be can’t be can’t be) 

projector screen 

can see what can’t be seen 

burned love my love his cheekbones can’t be anybody else’s

can’t unsee can’t look away 

can see him still even when I can’t—

Like peering though smoke. 

Like finding the road and the child 

and his hand on my hand on the wheel

steering the car through the terrible white room

long as the freeway and lonelier still

to the place where we live only once always

the two of us together, the one of us saying,

I can’t and I can’t, and the other replying,

You can and you are and we’re home—and gentle his touch 

and his golden-peach face of the sun of the son

of the man—that other, my love: 

the man I said I will see one last time

to the doctor. You will show him to me.

And the doctor was kind and agreed.