Clutch

By Rosa Sophia

Everything looks fine on the outside, drivable—
            like the car’ll start. The fuse box melted,
leaking energy. There’s nothing left. The battery died,
            but if I try, there’s just enough to turn on the lights.

I dreamed we lived in a house that was sinking,
            and we met in the middle of a downward slope.
I tried to show you the danger of losing a load-bearing wall.
            I don’t know much about construction, but my father did.

He built houses, stores—he built a Walmart by where I was raised.
            What would Daddy say about the house in my dream? 
You didn’t notice the decline, even when I tried to remind you:
            We can’t make love on a fractured foundation.

It’s all in the frame: Take this car. It’s rotted on the bottom,
            so weak I was scared to touch it. Everything looks fine
on the outside, maroon paint, shiny Ford emblem. 
            But it’s a goblin, a parts pit, a lawn ornament. 

I open the trunk and find water, roaches.
            They run the way I do, scurry away from the light.
I would like to tell you we’re standing on broken boards,
	    but when I speak, you don’t seem to listen—you turn away.

Of course I could leave. I could drive clear across the country
            to Ojai. I could move there, drive my truck there. 
I remember being so tired I thought I’d drive west
            through all of Texas, then north all the way to Seattle. 

I never made it past Cocoa, though, because that was the day I met you.
	    I thought I could confide in you, but now I’m afraid
of the cracks, the broken frame. I sit motionless like this car
	    when you say you don’t believe me—

The user manual has pages missing. I kept all the insurance
	    cards, pried off the logo, took all the mirrors.
I like to look for the faces of past drivers inside them:
	    Grandma, my mother, my brother, me. 

We all, at one time, took care of this machine. The tow truck
	    comes in the rain. I help the driver load it onto the bed;
he places cash in my hand. With the car gone, all that’s left are 
	    deep cuts in the dirt from the tires.

I sit in my truck and cry. We look fine on the outside,
	    drivable, but I cannot speak. I peer into my mirrors,
clean the glass. Will the day come when you’ll finally hear me?
	    I clutch my key. I’ve thought about leaving.

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Rosa Sophia is a candidate for an MFA in Creative Writing from Florida International University. Her poetry has been published in Philadelphia Stories Magazine and Limp Wrist, and her creative nonfiction has appeared in Islandia Journal. She is also the author of Village of North Palm Beach: A History (The History Press, 2020). She holds a degree in automotive technology and is the managing editor of Mobile Electronics magazine.

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