How We’re Going to Die, According to my Best Friend in 8th Grade

By Nancy Lynée Woo
After James Tate

I’ll be hit

by a speeding car while sitting in the passenger’s side
slow motion

the yellow lanes now guardrails leading
into the next subway (except
it takes forever to get there).

I know that’s how I’ll die. I’ve seen it.
Nothing special, she says.

You, though. Your death
is the best of all:to be impaled—bloated heart

lingering on metal rod, pushing up into the sky
guts spilling out onto everyone
attracting lightning

into eternity.