El Zapateado

The teeth are cracked from the socket.

The sister still suffers and sobs.

The school bus is always crashing

There is no pain, but the sound echoes.

There are tracks left over, shiny and raw.

One hundred heads slam against the seat.

The blood fills the mouth, metallic.

The blood still flows, dripping from fingertips.

There is always blood.

Gloved fingers fish the pearls from the back of the throat.

Shaking hands smash the blade to the tabletop.

Hitting the brakes, too little and too late.

Sealed away in a plastic bag.

Cell phone buzzing across the room.

Legs banged up against the bar.

I tuck them under my pillow.

I run toward the light of it.

I put my hands to my face.

At senior recital, my fingers skip and stammer across the keys;

just like I practiced at home.