The clanking that vanishes once my car is in the mechanic’s presence,
Provokes the same frustration I feel when you cannot hear what I know rattles.
Beneath my rib-caged hood, an engine roars in the recesses of a rusted out carcass.
I disassembled its wholeness to fix what no one saw as broken.
On the show room floor buyers see
Clean lines, sturdy frame— a beautiful body of steel and fiberglass,
which can be driven until the miles run out or until the road ends
where the earth is still believed to be flat.
Winding roads took me to where the wind pushes up the tips of my sneakers.
I decided to walk this path that was meant to be driven upon.
Cliff’s edge, where the altitude makes you high,
Where you realize why lungs are sacs.
Holding in the essence of brine in these bags
That have kept me alive with the out and the in.
I have relinquished the body that is vulnerable to erosion.
I have come to believe that I am only the blowing particles that were met with the resistance of my bones.