My flesh is a melting wire under the hood

of a four-cylinder pickup truck with my rebuilt engine inside.

The thing about engine rebuilds is you can’t turn the key

and expect a smooth ride as if the truck just rolled off the sales lot.

The heart of my engine has been through too much.

My lover tried to loosen my bolts with his wrench.

My engine stuttered and wept at the strain.

My flesh is a melting wire under the hood

hidden beneath a fuse box where my ignition relay has failed,

and no one hears the gentle pop when the fire starts.

I rebuilt my engine. But the thing about engine rebuilds is,

it’s important to ask whether this engine is ready. Can my engine

enjoy a little play, a little fuel injection it’s never felt before?

The scrapes replay in flashbacks. My engine came from a junkyard,

and all the shade tree mechanics who dropped it, cracked the cooling jackets.

You wouldn’t know it: The cracks are too tiny to see without testing the pressure.

My flesh is a melting wire under the hood,

my lover a crimper to heal the wound, but instead my body curls

when he forgets himself, thinks I can move a little quicker when I can’t.

I rebuilt my engine. But it’s so easy to strain my hairline cracks,

and then wonder, is my mileage low enough to salvage? Or have too many men

dropped my cylinder head, cracking my insides with careless abandon?

My lover steps away from my engine to look for a better tool,

but I think I might’ve lost my compression. I turn the key, try to forget.

My flesh, the wire, melts and curls at the strain.