HEAT SHIELD

by Jill McDonough

HEAT SHIELD

We pulled up to a light on Tremont, just down
from Anchovies, and both looked to the right, willed
by the jangle, impossible racket shrill
from the car next door.  I laughed at the poor bastard,
having been that guy before, and you nodded: "The heat
shield on his catalytic converter is loose."

I never saw, just imagine, you on the sled
in and out under a hundred Hondas when
you worked in the auto shop.  You sliding out
on your back, those arms at your sides, your grease-stained cap.
Wiping your tattooed hands on your hips in a gesture
I love, even having washed your fingers' streaks
from twelve years' worth of pants.  Shaking your head,
breaking bad news—you got problems, lady—
compressors, ratcheting wrenches, torque sticks, torch.
And when we first met I imagined, wanted, just
this kind of thing:  some shared everyday errand
with crepey arms and silver hair and still
the cracking up, impossibly complex codes
of reference, flirting, teasing.  Quoting ten
year old conversations—I love to travel—
our catechism.  Lines from The Hunger, The
Thin Man, Candleshoe: call and response.  One time
a package arrived, marked ¡FRIGALE!, enriched
our lives for good.  How could anyone give
up on a marriage like this one?  And start from scratch?
They couldn't. And lose all these good jokes?

Josey.  Today you're forty-five years old.
Here is what it is like to be in love
with you:  each day fresh with the gift of it.  Fierce
nose-sting of tears, quick breath out of nowhere.  Here's
the best part:  each time, each moment you do that—
each heat shield, each first down, each perfect pour—
compresses, ratchets, torques, illuminates
the others, remembered or imagined.  Each text,
each time I hoped for a future together, one half
as good as this one, its taxes and peonies, its take
your pill.  Starting with the first time I saw
you, May Second, 1999,
in the Charles Street Playhouse.  When I didn't know
seeing a stranger's face could do that.  When
I didn't know you, didn't know yet you and me.

About Jill McDonough

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