Song of the Mechanic

For M.F.

We smell of garages, that mixture of fluids,
smoke and exhaust, wear our names above our hearts.
Days spent hunched over or sprawled under
these metal giants, knuckles blackened with grease,
palms callused from the wrench’s caress.
We fit incomprehensible
pieces in the belly of our loves, adjusting
until the engine thrums like a dangerous creature.
It begins with electricity.
Compression, and combustion—
Each movement born of tiny explosions, Pistons firing, endless cycles.
Something happens. A valve sticks,
stainless steel rusts, belts break.
Our job is to fix what no longer works,
gods healing the machine.

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