“Two generations of Americans knew more about the Ford coil than the clitoris, about the planetary system of gears than the stars”
-Cannery Row
All-steel body,
nickeled radiator,
& deeply cushioned seats –
You had a streamline effect.
The way your rotary lifted us
necessitated double ventilation,
artificial lungs pushing
the toxic away.
Your Windsor Maroon & Channel Green
reached for a planetary system
as if gears could ever be cosmic.
We hopped in for the touring
& behind your silk curtains
we proved rims are
mountable –
This was the push of your throttle,
a gear shift supplying an alternat-
ing current to our spark plugs,
whether you noticed, or not, whether
your grill ever found any lips
or not.
We wanted to pretend, tin
Lizzie, you weren’t mass
produced. That you weren’t
some assembly line runabout
with interchangeable parts,
we wanted to pretend
we wouldn’t be fiber
glass to your steel,
pretend the ride would propel
us both forward on the same high
way, but you slammed
on the brakes, left us
in your rearview
& picked up a new passenger.
Was I a placeholder?
Standard equipment you wanted to upgrade?
Time isn’t factored into the total
cost & fuck, we weren’t
transactional. We saw the glow
of your headlights, a singular
universal joint.
When you ignite the dash light
the space we occupied is bare –
If only you felt
our aftermarket value,
the way you stare
up into the black tarp
of night & know
the stars aren’t welded together
on a belt by men
but are collisions
of particles untouchable,
irreplicable, white-hot
moments always already
burned.
