Should you stop for a soda? 

One exit driven past 

the thought to stop ahead— 

there’ll be more light, 

more people in Emporia; 

you’ll be safer there, 

a woman of nineteen, alone— 

so you move on 

crest the awaiting hill 

in a little Honda 

crammed with everything you own 

fly through the fog 

down the highway leading 

to a new state 

new school 

new life. 

When you see the semi 

it will be too late 

to stop, 

think beyond, “I’m going to die” 

to “Aim for a wheel.” 

You smash 

bounce back 

see the second truck coming. 

The brakes’ shrill squeal 

fill your ears 

as the blood begins 

to flood your eyes. 

Should you stop for a soda? 

Yes, yes—stop, you’ll say. 

Stop for a soda, for anything 

stop the surgeries 

the hospital beds 

destroyed limbs 

possessions 

lost job 

lost dream 

lost life imagined. 

For five years you’ll say stop, 

and deeply believe  

the worst mistake you ever made 

was not stopping for that drink 

until one spring day in your backyard 

a curly-haired toddler running up 

you realize you cannot stop 

you have to hit that truck 

lose the job 

lose the dream 

be forced to find another path 

to meet the man 

you never would have met 

who gave you this daughter 

you could never have imagined 

living without. 

you never want to imagine