by Carrie Shipers
What cars could make men do: bleed, curse,
throw wrenches. Grin, swagger, clap
each other’s backs. Women worried
about money, what to fix for meals, what might
be broken and how they’d know. Men broke,
then fixed with hands like my father’s, brother’s-
grease ground under the skin, fingernails flat
and square. I wanted their hands, wanted to say
piston, crankshaft, manifold and mean it like a man,
wash to the elbow with Lava, GoJo, forget
to rinse the sink, be reckless with paper towels.
I failed at work that didn’t choose me, hands
stuttering wrenches, throat swallowing names
of parts. I quit the shop, quit thinking
the only power was what men knew, machines
and how to tend them. Their work was easier
than women’s: understanding men, tending
their hurts, knuckles and hearts scraped raw
by a mysterious, clumsy force, themselves.
*Photo courtesy Someone Somewheres Life.