Seconds caught themselves in the burning
tire marks of my sister’s car, where in the stretching

scare, I was a teenager and collected the last words

of all the writers I had read, practicing: “I should say something
clever.” My sister’s widening smile before the metal pressed

our bodies into the dashboard and steering

wheel. The seconds met us, concussed.
Safe and on the sidewalk, calling our mother.

And two days later, we let the oil burn too hot

in the kitchen. Perogies made wild splashes
and pops in the oil and the fire that grew there.

At the time, I could tell her anything and she would do it.

Cut the wheel tighter, pour water on the fire,
stop just in time, stay in this kitchen with me.

I was younger and so sure of everything.

And she was so sure that I could save us.
She drove into the wreck. Regardless of disaster,

my braver, older sister hovers above the oil fire

with a glass pitcher filled with water and waits
for me to tell her, “What are you waiting for?”