My gran still wrings the neckof the pre-plucked chook that flew awayand my mother nearly dying.                She is only young, grandmother,                and cannot know much better.I have been bad, and was here, to be there,not far from home, only three years old,three miles from home and the suddenall-consuming noise has just created                             (silence).I'm lying in a white bed bigger than my unformedknowledge of death while my mother has becomethe inverse of herself — wearing all her organsfrom the outside in. We are already stationary.There is a knocking on the window.There is a child in the back. I cannot breathe.It is dark, and somebody is knocking at the windowand the most awful noise has just created silence.There is a child in the back and I cannot breatheand then was nothing, then, but nothing.The steering wheel has been embedded in the futureof my mother's spine. We are stopped. I am alone.It is black and white and long and I must forgetthe way the car bonnet cut through my mother's line of sight.                I cried and cried, but still you did not answer me.My gran still wrings the neck of pre-plucked chookthat flew away and the noise was awful. I must have beenso bad, but she is young, grandmother, and cannot know much better.