Repairs

If it happens again, my uncle says,

You’re out of luck.

He retracts himself from the engine

Of my first car.

His arms and face dark with grease

Had become functioning parts

Of the broken machine.

I apologize, replace the key on my keychain,

And he cracks another Natural Light.

You’re very lucky,

My aunt says from the corner of the garage,

To have such a kind uncle.

She too reworks a motor.

Her elbow-length rubber gloves

Drip with warm blood

As she fillets and separates venison

From bone and hide.

The doe nods its head and waves

Its splayed limbs as her blade

Works inside caverns of the dead animal.

I mumble a thanks. My uncle tidies

His empty beer cans and oil-slicked wrenches.

Say hi to your mother.

He slams the hood and I turn the key.

Out of the garage,

Onto the highway, my Pontiac clatters

At 80 miles-per-hour,

A Saran-wrapped cut of meat rides shotgun.