They could describe the centrifugal blur
of asphalt, tell how road signs and headlights
were chrome-framed for that inauspicious instant
in the windshield of dun sky.
They could describe the banging
of arms, legs, and heads inside
against the chassis, explain it
as the inevitable protocol of
human and canine physics.
If scientists knew all the variables—
speeds, masses, angles, coefficients of friction—
they could reproduce the disaster
in detail, in slow-motion, say
just which bash against
the side post killed my brother.
They might even know
if the dog barked, if my brother
cried out, if my mother
was conscious in that moment still