Truck Body

I helped bore holes into the body of the truck that we would later make love in, in a field by a pond with tall grasses and moonlight.

It made me feel big and important, the way a little girl might feel working beside her father, but I understand that’s not the right way to feel.

Perhaps the right way is to feel proud to be included in the piecing together of something bigger, in the grinding of metal into metal,

The gluing of bolts, attaching of parts.

We built something, and you never questioned my skill or adeptness,

Neither with trucks

Nor people.

But all these years later

As I put myself together from the shards

of memory

I see I might have been better

equipped to deal

with trucks

than men.

Tags: being human, memory, poem, trucks