automobile

i wanted to open the hood of my car
to investigate the thrashing
sounds that seem to occur at 
every stoplight. like a smashed-wing 
pigeon of a rabbit without a leg.
sometimes a chirp, sometimes just
wincing. i wrestled with
the hood, clutching a dull spreading knife 
to try & pry it open. does anyone
have a father i can borrow? 
i tried to imagine what men do 
with the engine once the hood is popped.
leaning in, breathing deep the fumes,
hands over warm metal. the car,
asleep & unaware of being caressed.
all the young men gathered around
the skull, an opportunity to 
be tactile animals. something to be
unscrewed. something to be tightened.
finally i managed to prop up
the hood only to find nothing
at all inside. a great big empty 
cavity. i ran a finger along the bottom,
thin layer of black gunk.
the smell of gasoline or oil.
wiping the black off on my thigh
i marked a line from my pelvis 
to my knee, a piston. an axle in me. 
i contemplate crawling inside
despite the residue. i imagine 
all the fathers congregating around 
the car, their fingers made of tools,
chewing pages out of auto manuals,
unlatching the car's face just
to find a small man laying there.
would they kill me & claim
gay-panic? like a vampire nailed 
into his coffin or would they 
climb in too? let's make an engine.
i give in, i get inside, i shut the lid.
i feel like a sliver of canned peach 
or maybe a colony of sweet peas. 
i wish you were with me, kissing me,
pressing me harder against the hot 
metal carcass. feeling along the edges, 
i do find one thing;
a map of the whole country, only written
on a series of brown paper napkins.
i stuff them in my pocket before 
getting out. i was too scared of 
men finding me there. i tape the map
to the ceiling in the car.
when i come pick you up i won't
tell you about the engine, 
i'll tell you i made this map for us.