Small Engine Repair

a poem

Photo by Matt Artz on Unsplash

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I could not bring
that air compressor back
to life. I didn't possess
that gift—not the deft
hand and not the clever

vision. It was white men
who taught me how
to use tools. My father
never fixed any small
engine. When I was

small, I'd stay awake
for two or three days
waiting for him to return
home from his latest
drinking binge. I'd go 

sleepless for so long
that I'd hallucinate.
That's the creation
story of my insomnia.
I think a wounded bird

made a nest in my chest
on every night where
I didn't sleep. Those
birds still reside
inside me. I can feel

their wings flutter
and flutter in pain.
I can feel the small
engines of their lungs
stop and start and stop

and start and stop.
In the funeral home
for my dead father's
viewing, I staggered
and fell to my knees

in front of his open
coffin. I wept. I wept.
Then I reached up,
held his wrist,
and waited and waited

for his small engine
to restart. It didn't,
of course. After 
my father's funeral,
I crawled into bed

and slept for two days.
When I woke, the birds
were perched 
on my ribs. I can feel
them now as I write

on this insomniac 
night. Sing for me,
I ask the birds. Sing
me to sleep. Please
sing me from landing

to stair and stair
to landing. Sing me
from curse to prayer
and prayer to curse.
Sing me from fair

to field and field
to fair. Sing me from
chair to bed and bed
to chair. Sing, sing
for my soul's repair.