It was I who survived
and you who died.

You sat across from me, Daddy, with your
shades low for protection. The bus clumped
on the desert, as the wheels were
milk crates, past cactuses and sand castles
that flumped back into piles. The smell of human
carcasses blew out the AC vents and splattered vapor
blood and sweat onto our summer clothes. Daddy,
you watched as I pulled down the window that
crumbled on the seats like sugar decorations
and I jumped.
Did you really watch it happen?
Can a blind man see these kinds of things
coming? Were your shades protecting your eyes
from the sun or from the world knowing
your gaze out the window is a learned lie?

I watched from the dunes the bus chug away on
triangular blocks of wood until it reached
the horizon and fell off the face of the earth.