by Gideon Leek
On my 23rd birthday, a hit and run driver killed my Aunt Claire
His car climbed over her body, starting with the sides of her stacked feet
and proceeded to crush her flat, her head, of course, coming last—
meaning she experienced the maximum amount of pain;
meaning she watched herself become wet asphalt;
meaning that the last grisly note of her life
had time to tint whatever flashback played in her final moments
(sledding in Wisconsin,
getting married in Providence,
summer trips to Cape Cod,
—all cast under red rain).
It must have been a relief to go,
for the compact crossover SUV to mash her brain out,
one final spurt of Aunt Claire
like toothpaste from a rolled-up tube.
On the steps outside the hospital morgue,
we all ate ice cream cake—
for my birthday, not Aunt Claire.
Gideon Leek has published a poem in Spectra. He was a finalist for the 2025 Robert and Adele Schiff Award for Fiction from The Cincinnati Review. He lives in Brooklyn and is at work on a novel. @gideon_leek is his official Twitter.