Sometimes I Imagine the Back Wall of This Room is Rolled Open to the Night’s

Solitude Like an Alley Garage with The Door Cranked Up

by Freesia McKee





The mechanic works into the next day’s

               early hours, searching through recycled cigar



boxes piled with ordinary parts, wiping her greasy hands

               on the worn thighs of her corduroy overalls. The glow



of the garage’s center bulb flickers in its metal cage as her

               Ani DiFranco cassette tape reaches the end



of its final track and she turns it over again.

               I know—who listens to cassettes anymore?—but



               *



               when I

               met her

               we were girls.



               *



There were pool tables and dartboards,

               there were women playing pool,



there were women playing darts. There were women

               with short curly hair, there were women



with long black hair, there were women

               whose sunglasses shined on the table. There were women



with bike chain backs. There were women

               with arms like rivers.



There were women with eyes that told the time. There were women

               talking and sipping



drinks and there were doors

               and the doors didn’t roll up.



*



We were girls:



Girl smudging the bright rose

               of her cigarette into the ground.

 

Girl wearing a hot metal

               belt buckle.



Southside girl, rural girl, girl with green eyes,

               rusty girl, shining girl.



Watercolor girl. Girl

               who knows you

               by both of your first names.



Opulent girl. Girl with binoculars. Girl

               with histories like a scrapyard.



I’m a girl, a digging dog. I run

               the length of the graze.

               I know how to feed an animal.



Stay-away girl, visitor girl, girl

               wearing both sides of a wall.



*



At this checkpoint, they tell you that you want

               to go home



to the home they’ve chosen for you. They tell you that girls

               like you don’t want to be in places like this,



places like the places we met.



*



Every road in the city of gender

               has a checkpoint, official ritual.



When you come out

               the other side, you’re closer



to the next checkpoint

               which is why some girls forge their own roads.



How I want to give every girl a card

               that says cartographer, not because this land



is untrodden, but because every person

               needs to find her own way



to remember it. This is how the mechanic

               lets me watch her work:



a quiet road, an all-night drive, an exquisite,

               tuned machine. Here: I am a visitor.



*



I am waiting at her threshold.

               Waiting for her, I am sober as a crane.



When I stand in the water, the river

               moves beneath me.



The water seals around me like a well-fit

               wrench on a well-fit bolt.



She unfolds the map, which grows like a reed

               and shines on the rush.



I step in and the door

               of the theater rolls down.





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