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.
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