Four years later—February remains stunted
a mix of dark mud and chocolate. I have found
no way to thank first responders or some guardian
spirit that gathered me broken and splintered
from the gravel shoulder.

I hold no sound memory in volume or frequency
of the side mirror shattering against
the hinge and pivot of my ulna, radius and humerus.
How can I thank my surgeon in full or partial
for welding my elbow with titanium? I can’t extend
fully but I can flex with a wide range of motion.

Each anniversary of induced coma I receive
an olfactory visitation. Is it Te Wung Fu’s melancholy
clove blossom? Oxygen holds no odor yet the flexible
tubing delivering it wafts something green
but plastic. A strong spirit arrived to press
the vapor into my lungs. How can I claim
the smell organic and familiar?

Jenna Rindo lives with her husband on five acres in rural Wisconsin where they raised their five children. Her poems have been published in Shenandoah, AJN, Natural Bridge, Rhino, Verse Virtual, One Magazine and others. In 2022 she won the Lorine Niedecker prize for a group of 5 published poems. For years she worked in hospitals as a pediatric RN and now works with refugee students. She is a runner and biker and competes in 5K races to full marathons.