You think the weight would sling the bus: back slamming
the front forward, some bright, reverse catapult
on the thinner part of the ice, latticed thicker & outward,
a center untouched by the children, who were too young
to understand fear, unable to know about blades to slice
through seats, the strength to even crack a window—
with the water cold enough for hypothermia, cold enough
for the breath to choke without getting air. I watched them,
watched the bus slowly disappear without fire, explosion,
black plumes rippling the frozen roots upon the lower banks.
I knew I could do nothing, thought of a small obituary,
no mug shot, how I'd never become a hero—all
among the screams I never heard, & want to, & never will.
After the film by Atom Egoyan
I like the idea of ekphrastic film poems, and to a certain degree that's what I thought of when I started writing this series.