anatomy of my grandmother's car

the smell of cigarettes. a burn on
the door. the two places where
she used to grip the steering wheel,
both of them smudged black.
i road with her only once 
in that car. we were going to 
a movie neither of us ended up liking.
i had stayed with her one weekend.
we did not know each other. me,
a round & tumbling creature, her
like a wrought iron gate. she was thin
& wore a deep red lipstick. we never
knew what to say to each other. 
they had to take her car from her.
she had started to forget the day
& then our names & then what year
we were all stuck inside of.
when she stopped driving, i got her car.
she was not gone but still, her ghost
would sit shotgun. 
i drove as much as i could. into 
the sun & back. parking lot
after parking lot. i would always discover
new bones. the cigarette lighter
in the dashboard. a notebook in
the bottom of the glove box. 
a bonnet folded in the pocket 
on the back of the seat. then, the guts.
i crashed the car only a block
from the dorms. the smoke &
the smell of oil. tubes & grit.
i sat on the curb looking at the car.
my grandmother, standing there
with me, cigarette in her mouth. 
her smoke mixing with that of the car. 
totaled. the parts now scattered
like lost freckles. she died a year
or so later. the world was cold.
the ghost car was idling outside. 
we both got in. i told her about my favorite
little town i used to ride to. we went
together & it was the best moments
we ever shared. 
her & the car, already gone.