Rosa Sophia Godshall

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Automotive Poetry

It’s been years since I graduated, but I find Mr. Olsen online and send him a message. He’s
retired. Thank you for all the instruction—for explaining the disassembly of carburetors, for all
the details I’ve long since forgotten. I wish I could pause my life’s film and re-watch.

I’m overhauling my truck engine. Mr. Olsen gives me his phone number. He offers advice on
engine stands, tells me to double-check my measurements, warns me to install a bearing for the
input shaft on my transmission.

He says he’ll help, but he’d love to see me rebuild this engine. He says, You just need to believe
in yourself—I do.

May I show you an automotive poem, Mr. Olsen? Here it is:

          We called you the Mad Scientist,
          technician of magic with torque wrench and sockets
          Remember when the engine caught fire in the lab?
          You were ready. You knew what to do.
          We were more frightened than we looked,
          first-year students panicking in the face of flames.
          We might’ve just watched it burn.

Mr. Olsen, not quite sixty, dies of cancer on a hot day in June.

I can still see the classroom with its engines bolted to stands. It’s break time. Metal chairs drag
across scratched linoleum as students file out, laughing and talking, safety glasses hooked to the
fronts of their shirts.

I ask Mr. Olsen if he can teach me something about carburetors before the break is over. He flips
the pages of his textbook to another chapter.

Sure, he says. Let me show you.

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World Beast

For the teachers and students of
Tinicum Art & Science.

Inside our little Buddhist high school,
we brewed herbal tea, ate spicy kimchee
from the jar, studied writing, history—
made our own narrative dissonance
at the bottom of a shot glass, a blunt.
Our teachers chose all the most troubled
kids—bullied, bruised, addicted, and homeless,
those most in need of love. I was just one.
After graduation I dreamed about
the world beast pursuing all my classmates.
I watched them run but couldn’t intervene.
I held out my hand, fingers left empty.
Did you know there’s a world beast watching you?
Please, don’t look now, but we each have a shadow.

We each have a shadow and we each know the blues.
Travel in time with me, see what I’ve seen:
Boys lying blacked out on our living room
floor, Seth curls into himself, eyes closed,
mouth parted. I shake his shoulder, call out
his name. I don’t sleep, afraid he might die.
He doesn’t. Miles finds the old whiskey
in the wet cellar, born before we were,
closes his eyes, shrieks. I cannot help him,
how can I help him? He’s lost his vision.
I wish I’d known then, I would’ve held him,
I would’ve loved him better, my brother,
twin soul. He recovered by the creek,
whittling wood. Sharp knife. Sharp edge.

Sharp edge. Sharp knife. Richie slicing the bread
at school. He hugs me tight. See his thick hair,
his muttonchops, hear deep laughter, this man,
this gourmet chef. He got his start right here
in Buffy’s kitchen. She cooks our lunches.
She found him, a little boy on her street,
our first student, later a surfer
riding waves in Mexico. There’s safety
by his side. Richie, can you still hear me?
How long since the murder? Bring a seashell
to remind you of sand and sunrise.
I’ll kneel at your grave and remember you,
how I said, you give the best hugs—
I carry memory, moments in time.

I carry memory, moments in time.
Years ago I dreamed about the world beast
following you, Ryan, through swamp and woods.
You light a cig on smoke break at school, vapor
lifting toward winter clouds. You say you ran,
you always ran, a world beast on your tail.
I wrote a poem, I wrote, the world beast
is coming to get me—and you say yes,
but the beast is inside me, part of me,
the world beast is me, everyone a limb,
a claw, a sharp eye, toe, finger pointing.
You run, caught by the beast, the overdose,
and I’m told you open your eyes just once,
a week before you die. Strong boy, find peace.

Strong boy, find peace—boy, so misunderstood,
remember the school trip to the city?
The museum, its wall of skulls, some unnamed,
just as lost. Mike, remember the mummy?
The body in its glass case, skin like soap.
Outside the museum, we sit on the steps,
you with your hands in your jacket pockets.
Years later, you say, ask me a question,
and I say, what’s your favorite color?
You like blue. You love Hawaiian pizza.
Your favorite movie is The Goonies.
So young, your death medical malpractice—
you thought you’d go home, sent your last message:
Hey. I am sad. I miss talking to you.

Hey, I am sad. Cody, grave on a hill.
As your coffin lowers into the ground,
I swear I see you, hair down, watching.
Your Lenape cousins drum, sending chants
into afternoon sun. Do you see me standing
by Ryan, gazing over the valley?
He’s still alive, and during your funeral,
he says it’s up to us to hold your soul’s
hand, send you love after the overdose.
After the service, Ryan plays music,
and Cody, is that you singing the refrain?
I’m not sure you’ve left. I still remember
the day we met, eternal notes playing strong.
How would your ancestors say encore, encore?

How would your ancestors say encore, encore?
In a photograph Sullivan leans back,
relaxed expression on his youthful face.
A boy, a boy I didn’t know too well,
you saved a life—I’m told someone’s breathing
because of you. All of us family,
all children running fast from the world beast,
those most in need of love. I was just one.
We sparred, Shim Gum Do in the afternoon,
meditation in the morning, tea time
all day. On Fridays we cleaned together.
We knew the mind is a mirror, we knew
we’d been given a home, a place to be,
inside our little Buddhist high school.

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Banner Art:
Le Mécanicien (The Mechanic), Fernand Léger, 1918, Wikimedia Commons, US-PD